‘In his bathroom, from the shower curtain rail.’ Margot automatically refilled his glass. ‘Lyddie says she called up to tell him his coffee was ready, and when he didn’t come she went to look for him. He’d locked himself in the bathroom and there was a note on the floor outside, telling her to call the police.’
‘My God!’ Mark paused. ‘Did it say why he’d done it?’
‘No, she said it was just full of apologies and saying how much he loved her. I’ve not seen it myself – the police took it, which added to her distress. But what possible reason could he have had? He’d no money worries, and he and Lyddie adored each other.’
‘You thought he wasn’t well, though, didn’t you? Perhaps he’d found out he’d an incurable illness or something.’
Margot shrugged. ‘Anyway, they interviewed her for hours and she told them she’d been worried about him but it had never entered her head he’d do anything like this. They wanted to know if there’d been any other deaths in the family, or if he’d tried to kill himself before. When they finally finished with her and the doctor had been, I asked if we could bring her home with us. Obviously she couldn’t stay there, with the house full of police and the upstairs sealed off, so they made a note of our address and we came back. That was when I phoned you – really the first chance I’d had.’ She ran a hand over her face. ‘It’s going to be so dreadful for her; there’ll have to be a post-mortem and an inquest, which will bring it all back.’
After a minute Mark said, ‘She seems remarkably calm now.’
Margot nodded. ‘The doctor gave her something. God help her when it wears off.’
‘That reminds me, I said I’d take Sophie a drink.’ He got to his feet. ‘Where’s Dad?’
‘He shut himself in the bedroom as soon as we got back. I know he’s grieving, but he might spare a thought for the rest of us. Perhaps you’d have a word with him.’ She pulled herself to her feet. ‘Go on up and I’ll see to Sophie’s drink.’
Mark finished his second glass, and with a heavy heart went up to his parents’ bedroom. His knock on the door produced no response. He knocked again, called softly, ‘Dad?’ and, in the continuing silence, turned the knob and opened the door.
Charles was standing at the window, his back to the room and his hands driven deep into his pockets. He didn’t turn as his son came in.
‘Dad, it’s Mark. Can I … get you anything?’
No response. Cautiously Mark walked over to him and took his arm. ‘I’m so sorry, Dad,’ he said.
Charles turned his head, and Mark was shocked by his ravaged face and the tracks of drying tears on his cheeks. He’d aged ten years since he’d last seen him.
‘Why the hell did he do it, Mark?’ he demanded, his voice cracking. ‘God knows, there was no need for that!’
Mark frowned, puzzled by the choice of words. ‘How do you mean, no need?’
Charles shook his head, making a dismissive gesture with one hand, but Mark, suddenly suspicious, studied him more closely.
‘Do you know something?’ he demanded. ‘Something that might explain it?’
Charles stared at him for a moment, and Mark had the odd feeling that it wasn’t himself he was seeing. Then he shook his head and said brusquely, ‘No, of course I don’t.’
‘But you were his closest friend,’ Mark persisted. ‘If he was this desperate, surely you’d have known?’
Charles ran a hand through his hair. ‘Peter could be very secretive when it suited him.’
‘Really?’ Mark gave a half laugh. ‘I’d have said he was the most open person I knew!’
‘Then you’d have been wrong.’ Charles drew a deep breath. ‘How’s Sophie?’
Mark hesitated, reluctant to let the subject drop, but it seemed his father was not to be drawn further. ‘Numb, I think is the best description. And in need of a drink, which is why I came to find you.’
‘No one else capable of pouring one?’
‘We need you downstairs, Dad,’ Mark said quietly. ‘We all do.’
Charles met his eye and slowly nodded. ‘Let’s go down, then.’
It was without doubt the worst evening Mark could remember. Though by then it was after eleven and they were all exhausted, no one suggested going to bed. For varying reasons none of them had had much to eat that day, but they weren’t hungry and Margot’s offer of food was declined. Nonetheless, she prepared a plate of small, triangular sandwiches and a few of them were absentmindedly eaten.
Lydia was seated next to Sophie, holding tightly to her hand as though afraid that by letting go she might lose her grip on everything. She’d emerged from her frozen state, though not sufficiently to allow the relief of tears; instead, she obsessively went over the events of the day – her last conversation with Peter at breakfast, the light-heartedness with which she’d been planning the week ahead.
‘And last night we were talking about going away for Christmas. He never gave any sign …’ She broke off, unable to finish the sentence, and Sophie reached blindly for a handkerchief.
‘How could I not have known?’ Lydia ended piteously – the same question Mark had put to his father. Had Peter really been as secretive as Charles maintained, or had the urge to end everything come on him suddenly, and he’d put it into effect without further thought? Charles himself had barely spoken since he’d joined them. He sat slightly apart from the group, gazing into the fire and nursing a whisky glass which he periodically refilled.
During one of the lulls in conversation, Mark said apologetically, ‘I’m sorry to bring this up, but I shall have to go in to work tomorrow. We’ve a big auction coming up and there’s really no way I can delegate—’
‘Of course, dear—’ Margot began, but Lydia broke in almost hysterically.
‘You’re not taking Sophie away?’
He hesitated, but Sophie said quickly, ‘No, of course not, Mum. I’ll stay for as long as you need me. Mark, will you phone the school and let them know Florence won’t be in next week?’
A house full of grief would not, he felt, be the best place for his daughter, but he’d no alternative to offer.
‘Of course,’ he said.
‘And you’ll be back tomorrow evening?’ Margot pressed. ‘You should be with the family at a time like this, not alone in an empty house. When you go in tomorrow, love, take a case with what you’ll need for the rest of the week, then you can catch the Sevenoaks train from work. Text me once you’re on it, and I’ll come and meet you.’
Mark, too tired to argue, nodded. If he were based here at least he’d see Florence, whom he’d missed during her week in Bournemouth. And, of course, Sophie, he added mentally, appalled that it had come as an afterthought.
‘Now that’s settled,’ Margot said firmly, ‘I think we should all go to bed. Lyddie darling, you have the pills the doctor gave you?’
Lydia nodded. ‘Only enough for three nights. I’ll need more than that.’
‘At a time like this, it’s easy to become addicted to them,’ Margot warned.
Lydia shrugged, turning to her daughter. ‘Will you sleep in my room tonight, darling? I don’t want to be alone.’
‘Of course I will,’ Sophie said.
Later, as Mark was undressing in his old bedroom, he remembered he’d never asked her about the mysterious Uncle Lance, and as things now stood, he probably wouldn’t get the chance again. He could only hope it wasn’t important.
Mark slept only fitfully, his mind a kaleidoscope of images of the day: Florence, rosy-faced in her bath before the bombshell; his father’s devastated face; and Sophie almost impatiently pushing him away as he tried to comfort her. ‘I must go to Mum,’ she’d said. Most haunting of all was an imagined vision of Peter, the jovial, generous figure who’d been so much a part of his life, hanging lifeless from the shower rail.
And echoing beneath all these snatches was Charles’s odd comment: There was no need for that. What exactly had he meant?
It was borne in on Mark, not for t
he first time, how little he knew his father. During his and Jonathan’s childhood he’d not been the kind who read bedtime stories or played football with them, and it was their mother who came to their infant nativity plays and, later, cheered them on at sports day. ‘Daddy’s at work’ had been the constant refrain, and their father’s study at home was strictly out of bounds. It struck Mark that his hands-on love for Florence was in part a determination to be different, to play an active role in his daughter’s life.
While he accepted that many men felt awkward with children, as their sons grew older a deep male companionship often developed. In their case it had not. Perhaps Charles had left it too late to unbend, to show belated interest in his sons’ accomplishments. Well, Mark told himself, it was his loss, but it did mean that at times of crisis there was no bond to draw them together.
The household was still asleep when he left at seven the next morning. The flashbacks to his childhood had brought his brother to mind, and it occurred to him that in all probability he’d not been told the news. Therefore, as he started the car and drove slowly out of his parents’ drive, he plugged in his hands-free mobile and clicked on his number.
It rang for several minutes before Jonathan’s sleepy voice reached him. ‘What the hell, Mark? Do you know what time it is?’
‘Time you were awake on a Monday morning,’ he replied.
‘The alarm goes at half past; you’ve robbed me of a precious thirty minutes.’ There was a brief pause, then his voice strengthened. ‘So what is it? Must be something serious at this hour.’
‘I’m afraid it is, Jon.’ Mark took a deep breath. This would be the first time he’d voiced the words that had dominated the last twelve hours. ‘It’s Peter – Peter Kingsley. There’s no easy way to say this: he’s hanged himself, Jon.’
Silence. Then a strangled, ‘What?’
Mark turned on to the main road, joining a stream of traffic, and went on doggedly: ‘Mum phoned us yesterday evening and we drove straight down. Lydia was at the parents’, because Dormers was full of police and forensic teams.’
‘My God!’ Then, ‘Police?’
‘They’re treating it as a crime scene, God knows why. I’ve left Sophie and Florence down there but I’m in the car now on the way to work.’
‘But why, Mark? Why in heaven’s name would he do a thing like that! God, poor Lydia!’
‘Yes.’
‘Look, we can’t really talk now. If you’re going in to work, could we meet for lunch? I need to know all the details, to try to make sense of it.’
‘Lunch would be great, Jon. Twelve thirty at the Dominion?’
‘See you there,’ Jonathan said and rang off, leaving his brother feeling marginally better as he continued his drive home.
Delia was still beneath the bedclothes.
‘Who the hell was that?’ she asked sleepily. ‘I hope they’d a good reason for calling at this ungodly hour.’
Jonathan walked slowly to the window and stared out at the gradually lightening sky. ‘Yes, as it happens, they – or rather he – had.’
She sat up, glancing at the clock on the table beside her. ‘Couldn’t it have waited till you got to the office?’
‘It wasn’t work, Delia, it was Mark.’
She paused in the act of pushing back her hair. ‘Mark? Whatever did he want?’
‘Very bad news, I’m afraid.’ Jonathan turned to face her. ‘It’s hard to believe, but it seems Peter Kingsley hanged himself yesterday.’
She gasped, her hands flying to her face as the colour drained out of it. ‘God, no!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, please, no!’
Jonathan stared at her, dumbstruck. This was not the reaction he’d expected. He went to her and tried to pull her into his arms, but she struggled to free herself. ‘Darling, what is it? Whatever’s wrong? I mean, I know it’s ghastly, but you hardly knew him.’
She looked at him wildly. ‘Are you sure? Could there be a mistake?’
‘No, Mark and Sophie went down last night. She and Florence are still there.’
She stiffened suddenly as though a thought had struck her. ‘Oh God, he didn’t leave a note, did he?’ Her fingers clenched his arm.
‘I don’t know. I’m meeting Mark for lunch, and I’ll learn more then. But I don’t understand why you’re so upset.’
She stared at him a moment longer, then she turned abruptly and flung herself face down on the bed, pummelling the pillow with both hands.
Jonathan gazed at her in total incomprehension. This, he thought feelingly, he could do without. Though Peter had always been a part of his life, to his knowledge Delia had met him only twice – at their wedding in June and at the birthday party two months later.
The memory of that party pierced the shield of his grief. Something had been wrong then – Peter’s unaccustomed tipsiness, his breakdown back at the house. Had that been the beginning of his troubles, or were they already well advanced?
Suddenly impatient with his wife’s excessive reaction, he said briskly, ‘Come on, darling, pull yourself together. It’s time we got ready for work.’
And as she still lay unmoving, he left her and went for a reviving shower.
NINE
Drumlee
‘You can put the light on,’ Natalie said.
Helena had paused in the doorway, outlined by the landing light behind her. ‘So you’re still awake,’ she commented.
‘Uh-huh. You’re not the only one who’s been enjoying yourself! Well done, by the way, for seizing the opportunity.’
Helena pressed the switch and the room leapt into blinding clarity. ‘A pleasure,’ she said.
Natalie studied her curiously; there was definitely something different about her – she’d noticed it as soon as they arrived – something she couldn’t put a finger on. But then Helena had always been uniquely herself, unfathomable to the rest of them.
Watching her undress, she amused herself by pondering how, if her sister had come into her consulting room, she would have assessed her, and was surprised by the qualifications that followed each appraisal. Self-confident, but with an underlying hesitancy; decisive, though sometimes backtracking; opinionated, yet occasionally contradicting herself. Will the real Helena Crawford please stand up? she thought fancifully. It was amazing, she reflected, that her sister, with all these inconsistencies, should be so competent and highly thought of at work.
Without intending to, she said suddenly, ‘You do love him, don’t you? Adam?’
Helena glanced at her in surprise. ‘Of course. To quote Prince Charles, “whatever love means”.’
‘Not a very happy analogy.’
Helena shrugged, slipping her nightdress over her head. ‘Go to sleep,’ she said.
But it was almost an hour before Natalie was able to obey her. Following her earlier musings, her mind slipped back over her relationship with her sister – the four-year-old and her frequent tantrums, the tale-telling, the teenage slights and betrayals. One of her less endearing habits had been to flirt openly with the local boys, irrespective of whether they had girlfriends, and when they’d broken off relationships and were her devoted slaves, drop them and move on to the next one. Natalie suspected Blair Mackay had been a case in point.
Since they’d left home and their lives had separated she’d lost track of her sister’s love life, though when they had met there was always a different man in tow. ‘I have a low boredom threshold,’ she’d said once, when Natalie had challenged her on the subject.
Admittedly Jack had lasted longer than the others. It had really seemed he might be the one, and when they split up it was several weeks before Helena could bring herself to tell her family. She’d seemed really devastated, yet they’d barely had time to adjust to the break-up before Adam was paraded in front of them. Did he know what he was letting himself in for? Natalie wondered; they’d been together for only a matter of weeks. He seemed a decent man and didn’t deserve to have his heart broken on a whim of her sister’s.
<
br /> She sighed and turned over. Across the room, Helena’s breathing was slow and regular. Not a care in the world! Natalie thought drowsily, and at last drifted into sleep.
Valentine’s Day, and as was only to be expected everyone received a card, even young Danny – from his mother. Harry, watching Seb open his, presumed it was from Miriam and was glad for him, while Mark reflected that in view of last night’s shenanigans it was probably as well he’d gone for the romantic option. He was still having difficulty in accepting that that hour in front of the fire had actually taken place.
Paula and Douglas had booked a taxi to take them for a déjeuner à deux at the café where they’d shared their first meal together all those years ago, and since they wouldn’t be needing the car, Seb suggested the rest of them should drive out of town, see a bit of the countryside and find somewhere for lunch. The problem of numbers was solved by Harry and Jessica opting out; she didn’t want to risk travel sickness and Harry decreed she should rest before the evening’s celebrations.
It had been decided that the present-opening ceremony would be held at midday, and the bouquet of red roses was delivered just as it was about to begin, to be greeted with surprised delight. Mark, who would never have thought of it, flashed Nick a look of gratitude.
Among the family’s gifts were Helena’s ruby glass vase; a pair of engraved champagne flutes from Harry and Jessica; a bottle of vintage red wine together with a copy of The Times from the day of their wedding from Sebastian; and from Natalie a card enclosing a page torn from a gardening catalogue showing a Japanese maple with deep red leaves which, she explained, would be delivered once they were back home. Douglas had presented his wife with a ruby ring, while her present to him was a watch – alas, not, as she laughingly apologized, studded with rubies.
Then their taxi arrived and bore them off for their lunch and the others piled into Douglas’s car, Nick beside Seb in the front, Mark and the two sisters in the back, with Danny perched on Natalie’s knee. It was a bright sunny day with a strong wind and Seb took the coastal road, affording them the view on one side of steep cliffs, sweeping beaches and sunlight glinting off white-flecked waves, and on the other side lush farmland stretching away towards distant hills.
Sins of the Fathers Page 11
