Two bluebells lie in the willow’s shade
Does anybody care?
Don’t look in the woods or in the glade
The pimpernel’s not there
A cuckoo flower that meets its doom
Loses its heart of gold
A forget-me-not that never blooms
Might hide and then grow old
For whom the bell tolls at year end
Only the daisies know
The question you should ask, my friend
Where do the flowers grow?
Elly looked from the paper to Farley. “I assume the flowers represent the girls.”
He nodded. “Some of it seems to fit, some of it appears to be nonsense. The reason Battle took it seriously is because of the line about the cuckoo flower losing its heart of gold. Lindsey Grofield was wearing a gold heart necklace when she was murdered but it was never found. It was never mentioned to the press. But the writer of the poem seems to know about it.”
Elly held up the receipt and said, “This won’t fit on here. Could I have a sheet of paper, please?”
“You can have that,” Farley said, indicating the photocopy. “I know it by heart, anyway.”
“Thanks,” Elly said, getting up and putting the camera back around her neck. She slipped the sheet of paper and the receipt into her jeans. “If you remember anything else that might be useful, here’s my card.” She put the card on the table.
Farley looked at her closely again. “I can see you want justice for those girls, just as much as I did when I worked their cases, maybe even more. Be careful because you might never find that justice. I couldn’t find it for them and it ruined my career. Don’t let the same thing happen to you. You have to accept that they might be lost forever.”
Elly opened the back door and stepped out into the garden. She turned to Farley and said, “I can’t accept that. I have to find them.”
18
Flower Girls
After leaving Farley’s house, Elly found a cafe in Bakewell and ordered a baked potato, a salad, and a cup of coffee. She placed the photocopy of the letter on the table along with the receipt she’d written on earlier and a pen she borrowed from the waitress.
She read the flower poem again, the pen poised over the back of the receipt.
Two bluebells lie in the willow’s shade
Does anybody care?
The two bluebells obviously referred to the Hatton sisters, Mary and Evie. On the receipt, Elly wrote, the words “bluebells” and, next to it, “Hatton Sisters.”
The next victim of the Blackden Edge Murderer was Olivia Walker. So it was logical to assume the next part of the poem referred to her.
Don’t look in the woods or in the glade
The pimpernel’s not there
Elly wasn’t sure if there was a flower called a pimpernel but the poem seemed to paraphrase a quote from the book The Scarlet Pimpernel. Elly had read the book as a child and knew the quote but checked on her phone to ensure she was remembering it correctly.
They seek him here, they seek him there
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere
Is he in heaven or is he in hell?
That damned elusive Pimpernel
After checking the quote, she typed “pimpernel flower” into the search engine. There was a wildflower called a Scarlet Pimpernel. So the killer was taunting the police, saying Olivia was as elusive as the Scarlet Pimpernel and that they’d never find her. She wrote the word “Scarlet Pimpernel” on the receipt and Olivia’s name next to it.
The next two lines obviously referred to Josie Wagner and mentioned the heart locket that was a secret known only to the police and the killer.
A cuckoo flower that meets its doom
Loses its heart of gold
Elly wrote on the receipt again. The words “Cuckoo flower” and “Josie Wagner” joined the list she was building.
A forget-me-not that never blooms
Might hide and then grow old
Elly put Sarah Walker’s name next to “forget-me-not.” She supposed the “never blooms” part of the poem meant Sarah would never bloom into womanhood. As she thought that, her fingers tightened on the pen. The line about hiding and growing old didn’t seem to make sense. She’d have expected it to say “never grow old.” Maybe the wrong word had been written in the poem, “then” instead of “never.”
For whom the bell tolls at year end
Only the daisies know
This was why Farley knew Lindsey Grofield belonged on the list with the other girls, despite not being taken from Blackden Edge. For whom the bell tolls at year end obviously referred to New Year’s Eve, when she went missing.
The last two lines of the poem were simply a taunt.
The question you should ask, my friend
Where do the flowers grow?
Elly looked at her new list of flowers next to the girls’ names. Why had the killer chosen these particular flowers for each girl? Was it random or was there some kind of reasoning behind it? She knew next to nothing about flowers, especially wild ones. Paul bought her roses on Valentine’s Day and sometimes a bouquet of colourful, unidentified blooms, but that was the extent of her contact with the world of flowers. If there was some reasoning behind the choice of flowers, she supposed Farley would have figured it out by now since he was an expert.
There was still no sign of her food so she decided to check the photos she’d taken at the graveyard. It had been sunny when she’d taken them and too bright to see the screen properly.
Turning the camera on, she scrolled back to the first photos she’d taken at the graveyard. She had a couple of shots of the church and a few establishing shots of the graveyard taken from the top of the steps. The next four shots were of Michael Walker’s grave, taken from various angles. There were six pictures of Sarah’s grave, also taken from different angles. These were the photos she’d been taking when Mitch Walker had showed up. Everything looked fine. There was no need to go back to the graveyard and retake the pictures.
She was about to turn the camera off when she remembered the blue flowers on Sarah’s grave. Finding the picture that showed the flowers the most clearly, she enlarged that part of the photo. The flowers were blue with yellow centres but that was as far as Elly’s flower knowledge went.
The waitress came over with her baked potato and salad. She placed the plate on the table and said, “There you are, my love, a jacket potato and salad. Enjoy your meal.”
“Thanks. Do you know anything about flowers?”
“Flowers? No, not really, duck. Why?”
It wasn’t the first time Elly had heard the term “duck” used as an address since arriving in Derbyshire. It seemed to be a local term of endearment.
“I was just wondering what these are,” she said, showing the waitress the enlarged image of the flowers.
“Oh, I’ve got some of those in my garden,” the waitress said, her face brightening as she obviously realised she could help this customer. “Those are forget-me-nots.”
“Thanks,” Elly said, feeling suddenly cold. It had to be more than coincidence that the killer’s letter likened Sarah to a forget-me-not and those exact flowers were on her grave.
But who had put them there? Not Mitch Walker. He hadn’t even known his sister had a grave at all.
She remembered his reaction to seeing the grave, the way he’d stared at it in disbelief.
What if he hadn’t been staring at the gravestone at all, but at the flowers?
That was unlikely. For the flowers to upset him so much, he’d have to know that the killer referred to Sarah as a forget-me-not. That wasn’t possible, was it?
The more she thought about it, the more sure she was that Mitch had been staring at the flowers on the grave. She needed to contact him, to find out what he knew. She was under no illusions that he would contact her, despite having her card. He’d made his thoughts about her quite clear.
She guessed he’d be at Edge
House. His father was dead so it stood to reason that Mitch had inherited the place. Of course, it was possible that Michael had left the house to his brother, Silas, but Elly doubted it. In the article about Michael selling his share of Walker & Sons to Silas, it had mentioned that part of the deal was that Michael took sole ownership of Edge House, which had presumably been a communal family property before. Elly got the impression that the brothers had eventually grown apart, maybe even fallen out with each other over something.
So, assuming Mitch was at Edge House, all she had to do was find the number of the phone that had rung when she’d been there. Assuming the phone number was listed, she could get that from directory enquiries. Before she rang Edge House, though, she was going to plan her opening gambit. Mitch might hang up on her unless she got his attention straight away.
She searched directory enquiries for Edge House, Relby, Derbyshire, and got a number, which she put into her phone with the contact name “Edge House.” She rang the number, deciding she was going to open the conversation by saying something about forget-me-nots. That would get his attention. She waited while the phone on the other end of the line rang, imagining the strident bell sounding throughout the Gothic house.
There was no answer.
Deciding to try later, she put her phone down and started eating her potato.
A couple of minutes later, her phone rang. She thought it might be Mitch but felt disappointed when she saw Jen’s name on the screen. “Hi, Jen, what’s up?”
“Elly, I’ve been talking to Mum and she’s very worried about you.” Jen sounded stern and upset.
“She’s always worried about me,” Elly said. “Mainly because I’m not you.”
“Don’t be so obnoxious. That isn’t true and you know it. And now I’ve been pulled into your little game.”
“What are you talking about?” Elly held the phone between her ear and shoulder and continued eating her potato.
“You’ve got Mum so worried with all this talk about serial killers that she’s convinced Dad to drive up there and make sure you’re all right.”
“What? You can’t let him do that. Dad can’t drive very well at the best of times. I can’t imagine what he’d be like on a motorway. What the hell is Mum thinking?”
“I don’t know,” Jen said, “but she’s on a mission to save you from yourself. She’s determined and you know what she’s like when she gets like that, there’s no talking her out of it. I can’t let Dad come all the way up there so now I have to drive all the way to the bloody Peak District.”
“No,” Elly said firmly. “No, you don’t. No one does.”
“It’s me or Dad,” Jen said.
“But you’ve got the kids to think about. You can’t just leave them.”
“Trevor’s going to take a couple of days off work. Even he can manage to get them dressed in the morning and take them to school. At least I think he can.”
“You’ve already discussed this with him?”
“Yes, what else could I do? I tried to convince Mum you were fine and just having one of your little episodes but it just started an argument. And then Dad got involved and was ready to put his coat on and drive to Derbyshire there and then. So I told them I’d do it.”
One of her little episodes? What was that supposed to mean? Elly didn’t know what to say. She was an adult who could look after herself. Why couldn’t her mum respect that? She knew that if she didn’t let Jen come up for a day or so, her dad would be tooling up the motorway in his Astra. He wasn’t in good health, having had a minor stroke a year ago. She let out a sigh of resignation. “All right. Come up here for a day. We’ll go for a walk in the hills or something. The scenery here is incredible. Then you can go home and assure Mum and Dad that I’m absolutely fine.”
“All right,” Jen said. “I’ll be there tomorrow. It might be late in the day because I should probably get the kids to school in the morning. At least I’ll be able to show Trevor what to do.”
“Fine,” Elly said. “I’ll text you the address of the cottage and the combination for the key safe. I’ll leave the key in there if I go out, so just let yourself in when you get there.” Without waiting for Jen’s reply, she ended the call.
That was all she needed, for her sister to be under her feet while she was trying to work. Jen wasn’t exactly the type of person who could keep her nose out of the things going on around her. She liked to interfere. No prizes for guessing where she got that from.
Elly finished her meal and left the cafe, reminding herself to go to the Co-Op and get a bottle of wine for when Jen arrived. They could go hiking during the day and relax with a glass of red in the evening. Might as well make the most of it.
As she walked through Bakewell, she rang Edge House again. Still no answer. Maybe Mitch wasn’t there after all and the house was still empty. If that was the case, she was tempted to break in again and search the place some more.
I didn’t break in, she told herself. I just walked in through an open door. She wasn’t sure if a judge would call that breaking and entering or not and she didn’t want to have to find out.
Still, her investigation wasn’t exactly going places at the moment. She’d eliminated a few names from the suspect pool and was left with Michael Walker as the most likely candidate for being the Blackden Edge Murderer.
She knew it couldn’t have been Michael who’d put forget-me-nots on Sarah’s grave but did those flowers really mean anything? It could just be a coincidence that the flowers were the same type the killer associated with Sarah in the poem.
She wanted to know more about Michael Walker. She didn’t just want to prove that he was the Blackden Edge Murderer, she wanted to know why. Why had he killed his sister and daughter?
More urgent than the desire to know these things was the burning need she felt to discover what had happened to the missing girls. Where were their bodies? In what secret places had Michael hidden them?
Where do the flowers grow?
The answer to that question had to be at Edge House.
19
Old Ghosts
Mitch returned to Edge House in the late afternoon. After leaving the church, he’d driven around aimlessly for a while before getting hungry and stopping at a pub for steak and chips and a pint of Doom Bar. By the time he’d eaten the meal and finished the beer, he’d decided it was time to go back to Edge House.
He got out of the Jeep and faced the house. It’s just a house, he told himself.
Even if it had been inhabited by a killer, the house itself was nothing more than bricks and mortar. Bricks and mortar shaped into an eerie Gothic mansion, sure, but nothing more than that. There were no ghosts that prowled the hallways at night, no spirits entombed within the walls. The only phantoms were in his head.
He went inside and straight upstairs, taking the steps two at a time until he was standing on the top-floor landing. Striding to the door of the room that featured in his dream-memory, the room with the light burning behind the traceried windows, he took a deep breath. By the time he let the breath out, he was in the room.
It was a small room compared to the others in the house, the type of room that might be used as a nursery or small child’s bedroom. Mitch couldn’t remember what had been inside this room when he was young so he reasoned that it hadn’t been anything interesting. Yet he remembered running barefoot along the track to the road and looking back at this particular window.
He went to the window and looked out through the leaded pane. From this vantage point, he should be able to see the track.
But he couldn’t. The trees were in the way.
In the dream-memory, he had looked back over his shoulder along a track that led straight to the house from the road. But the track wasn’t straight at all; it had that twist just beyond the lawn. That curve had been put there so that the house couldn’t be seen from the road. It was a privacy measure.
So the dream-memory was purely a dream and not a memory at all. That twi
st had always been in the track. Mitch had owned a green skateboard when he was seven or eight and he remembered riding it around that bend. One time, he hadn’t turned sharply enough and had ended up hitting the grass at the side of the track and sprawling headlong into the undergrowth. He’d grazed his elbow and knee. He still had the scars.
Shaking his head at the tricks his own mind was playing on him, he left the room feeling relieved and relaxed. The dream-memory had frustrated him, making him think that if he could only remember what he was running from, he might be able to solve an enigma from his childhood.
But there was no enigma. The flight along the track and the glance back over his shoulder at the house had never happened. It was impossible.
When he got back downstairs, he went to the kitchen and made a coffee, reminding himself as he looked out the window that he needed to sort out the garden sometime.
Taking his coffee to the living room, he took the journal and tobacco tin from beneath the sofa and put them on the coffee table. He opened the journal to a random page and read a passage that described a walk across windswept moorland to a “grave of daisies in a glade watched over by the Ladies.”
Mitch wondered if his father had been high when he wrote the journal. It was all nonsense.
He had to keep believing he could somehow make sense of these rambling thoughts put to paper. He picked up the Grand Cut tobacco tin. It was real and solid and in his hands thanks to the journal. It was proof that he could find answers in the words that were right there in front of him. He had to believe. Without his belief, Sarah was lost forever.
He reread the description in the journal.
I looked upon a grave of daisies in a glade watched over by the Ladies.
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