Blood-Tied

by Wendy Percival

  In the event she settled for a mid-calf-length bright-green skirt, a plain cream sweater and a scarf, emerald and turquoise, with tiny green beads stitched in wavy rows which Gemma had bought her for Christmas. Esme decided that the outfit had the right balance of smart, which she didn’t do very well, and casual, which was more in keeping with her usual style.

  She had taken trouble, too, over her make-up. She had been taught the effective techniques to soften the appearance of the ugly scar on her cheek but she had neither the patience nor the inclination to become a daily slave to the procedure. There were occasions, however, when she made use of the know-how and she had judged this to be one of them. While not concealing the disfigurement completely, it went a considerable way to lessening the shock to those she was to meet for the first time. She had become accustomed over the years to the different responses people gave. They ranged from embarrassment to audacity. She had learnt that a confident smile took the edge off people’s discomfort, though it had been a long time before she felt able to react in such a way. To those who were bold enough to ask the inevitable question, ‘an accident’ usually sufficed and by the time the questioner had absorbed the information he or she had invariably accepted that Esme had no intention of elaborating, as by then she would have steered conversation elsewhere. None of these strategies had come quickly or easily but over time they had been achievable. Only those closest too her were aware of the truth and the effort it had afforded to her to come this far.

  Taking a deep breath Esme crunched across the gravel and walked through the orangery which served as the entrance. She turned the handle of the partly glazed door at the end and stepped into a long hallway. There was a door to her left, through which she could hear the sounds of clattering crockery. Unusual to have the kitchen at the front of the house. A compromise to a successful conversion, or designed purposely so that staff could assess the comings and goings in and out of the home?

  As she paused on the threshold, the kitchen door opened and a slim middle-aged woman with short hair, wearing a white uniform emerged. She smiled on seeing Esme.

  ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve arranged to visit Mrs Roberts. I spoke to Mrs Rowcliffe on the telephone.’

  The woman nodded and stepped across the hall. She tapped on a door to Esme’s right, opened it and put her head inside.

  ‘Christine, someone to see Mrs Roberts.’

  ‘Thanks, Marion,’ said a disembodied voice. ‘Do send her in.’

  Marion stood back and gestured for Esme to enter the room. A striking woman, tall and very erect, walked towards Esme and held out her hand.

  ‘How do you do? Christine Rowcliffe, matron.’

  Esme shook her hand and introduced herself. The matron indicated a chair in front of the large wooden desk which dominated the room, and retreated around the other side. She sat down opposite Esme and smiled.

  ‘Matron’s a bit of a dated title these days, I know, but my residents seem to like it.’ Her curly dark brown hair bounced on her head as she nodded.

  ‘It’s becoming more fashionable again, I think,’ said Esme.

  ‘Quite.’ Mrs Rowcliffe rested her elbows on the desk and wove her fingers together. ‘And you are Mrs Holland’s sister? How is she?’ She leaned over and looked at Esme intently, which at first Esme found disconcerting.

  ‘Still unconscious at the moment, I’m afraid. We just have to wait and hope for the best.’ Her head had been spinning that morning as the consultant had been explaining the various tests and procedures they would be carrying out over the next few days to assess Elizabeth’s development and prognosis.

  Christine Rowcliffe shook her head slowly. ‘We are all most concerned for her. She has been such a support since Mrs Roberts’s loss.’

  ‘Her loss?’ Esme wondered if Mrs Rowcliffe was party to the relationship between her sister and Mrs Roberts but concluded that if Elizabeth couldn’t tell her own family it would hardly be the subject of casual comment. Perhaps Elizabeth had allowed Mrs Rowcliffe to assume she was a family friend.

  ‘Yes. And of course she’s been such a help in clearing Mrs Roberts’s cottage and sorting out everything. Packing it up for the sale. Not an enviable job at the best of times.’

  ‘No,’ agreed Esme. It was strange to be talking to someone about a part of Elizabeth’s life about which Esme knew nothing. But unless she was prepared to explain the circumstances she had to maintain the pretence that she was aware that Elizabeth was a regular visitor.

  ‘We are extremely grateful for what she’s done,’ the matron was saying, ‘and it’s so good of you to come and see Mrs Roberts.’ She smiled broadly at Esme.

  ‘I thought I’d call in and explain what happened,’ said Esme, wincing as she recalled Gemma’s cutting comments about digging the dirt. Esme was determined not to feel guilty that she had come. Surely under the circumstances it was reasonable to be curious? And as she had said to Gemma, her visit might throw some light on what had happened to Elizabeth.

  ‘She was most concerned to hear of Mrs Holland’s accident. She’ll be interested to hear the latest news, I’m sure.’ She stood up. ‘Shall I take you to her?’ She inclined her head to one side, her hair bobbing over too.

  Esme rose from her chair. ‘Thank you. She knows I’m coming?’

  The matron strode over to the door and opened it with a flourish. ‘Of course. This isn’t a boarding school, Mrs Quentin, where the staff vet what’s acceptable for the inmates.’

  ‘No, of course. I wasn’t implying –’

  ‘Oh there I go again,’ said Mrs Rowcliffe, tipping her head back to give a whoop of a laugh. She began to walk down the hall way, bidding Esme accompany her. ‘Don’t mind me. Bit of a hobby-horse of mine, I’m afraid. You’d be surprised by how many people think so. If one finds that physically one is too worn out to look after oneself, it’s bad enough that one has to live dependent on others. Here at Wisteria House we take pride in our philosophy, to remember that however dependent in body, our residents are independent of mind.’ She halted at an open door. ‘Here we are. I’ll introduce you.’

  The matron led Esme into a stylish and spacious sitting room with a soft-green carpet. Across the other side of the room long drapes hung at tall windows, tied back with wide sashes. The matron marched across the room and approached an elderly lady sitting in a chair facing the garden.

  ‘Mrs Quentin’s here to see you, Mrs Roberts.’ She turned to Esme. ‘I’ll leave you to become acquainted and go and organise some tea.’ She strode off.

  Esme smiled. ‘Hello, Mrs Roberts. I’m Elizabeth’s sister, Esme.’

  Mrs Roberts was a slight woman with bright blue eyes, neatly dressed in a wide-pleated navy chequered skirt and a pale yellow twin-set, a string of small dark-blue beads around her neck. Her hair was almost white, pulled off her face and tucked into a French pleat at the back of her head.

  The old lady took Esme’s hand in wide flat fingers and shook it firmly. Her hands were surprisingly large, disproportionately so, considering her build. Could this be Elizabeth’s mother? Esme found herself looking for a likeness, a clue that confirmed her assumptions but saw nothing. She wasn’t even sure she was one of the images in Elizabeth’s locket. She felt disappointed.

  The old lady smiled. ‘Pleased to meet you, dear.’ She indicated a chair opposite and Esme sat down.

  ‘Mrs Rowcliffe explained why Elizabeth hadn’t been to see you as usual, I understand,’ said Esme.

  The old lady’s smile faded into the folds in her long face. ‘An accident she said.’ She laid her hands in the lap of her skirt.

  ‘I’m afraid she’s still unconscious. But we’re hopeful she’ll come round soon.’

  ‘Dear, dear.’ Mrs Roberts shook her head slowly.

  Esme hesitated. Now she was here, she was uncertain how much to tell the old lady. Should she explain abou
t the suspicions behind the incident? It might be better that she and the matron continued to believe it was an accident, not an attack. But that would negate one of her reasons for being here, to find out if there was a connection.

  Esme looked round at the sound of rattling crockery. A young woman was carrying a tray across the room towards them. She placed it on a small occasional table and then carried both over to the two women. Mrs Roberts gave a friendly smile to the girl.

  ‘Thank you, Abigail, dear. Most kind.’ The girl returned the smile and retreated.

  Mrs Roberts looked sharply at Esme. ‘How’s Gemma taken it?’ she asked.

  Esme was taken aback by the question. Although Gemma might have decided that she was unwilling to acknowledge Mrs Roberts, there was no reason why Mrs Roberts wouldn’t know about Elizabeth’s family. Before Esme had collected her thoughts to answer the question, Mrs Roberts confounded her with another.

  ‘Elizabeth never told you about us, did she?’

  Esme looked into the old lady’s bright eyes. ‘No,’ she admitted eventually. There was nothing else to say. And it was a relief that she didn’t have to continue the charade.

  ‘She was going to tell you soon, I think.’ Mrs Roberts lifted the lid of the teapot and peered in. ‘It was on her mind.’

  The old lady’s casual manner implied that the matter was of little importance and for a brief moment Esme felt irked by the misapprehension. But then she realised that Mrs Roberts might not be fully conversant with all the facts. While she may have been aware that Esme and Gemma didn’t know that Elizabeth had got in touch with her birth family, she might not realise that they were ignorant of the adoption itself.

  ‘You haven’t asked how we found out,’ Esme said.

  ‘But you did, and now you’re here.’

  Esme was puzzled. Wasn’t she curious? She watched as Mrs Roberts focused on stirring the pot, her mind drifting back to the dilemma of whether or not to mention that they’d first thought that Elizabeth had been attacked. Or should she say nothing, now that the police weren’t treating it as such? She sighed inwardly. This was ridiculous. She was going round in circles.

  She wondered suddenly what Mrs Roberts’s reaction would be if she told her.

  ‘It may not have been an accident,’ said Esme, more abruptly than she had intended.

  Mrs Roberts looked up from the pot and stared at Esme, the spoon in her hand hovering in midair, as if confused by the sudden change in direction.

  ‘What, dear?’

  Esme swallowed. ‘When Elizabeth was first found, the police thought she’d been attacked.’

  The spoon clattered on to the tray and Mrs Roberts’s hand went to her throat. She grasped her beads and looked straight at Esme. Esme could see the panic in her eyes.

  ‘To be fair, they’re not sure,’ she continued hastily, alarmed at the old lady’s reaction. ‘The police thought at first that she’d been mugged because her handbag wasn’t with her. Since then it’s been found and nothing was taken, so it could have been an accident, someone running past and knocking into her.’

  Mrs Roberts’s expression remained disconcerting.

  Esme immediately felt guilty. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I know what a shock it was to us.’

  The old lady began to shuffle the crockery on the tea tray, evidently trying to compose herself. Her hands were shaking and the porcelain clinked as she placed cups in their saucers. ‘No, no. Of course you should have told me.’ She tried to smile. ‘As you say, it is a shock.’

  ‘Well, you don’t expect these things to happen, do you?’

  ‘No, you don’t.’

  Mrs Roberts fell silent. She abandoned the organisation of the tea tray and slumped back into her chair.

  ‘Shall I pour?’ suggested Esme.

  Mrs Roberts nodded. Esme dribbled some milk into the cups and picked up the teapot. She poured out the strong brew and with her thoughts on the remedy for shock, lifted the sugar bowl with one hand and gestured with the spoon. Mrs Roberts gave a brief nod. Esme spooned in the sugar and stirred.

  ‘Do the police know who did it?’ asked Mrs Roberts, sitting forward again.

  Esme couldn’t decide whether it was an odd question to ask so directly about the perpetrator or whether she was simply looking for anomalies which didn’t exist. ‘They have one of those photo-fit pictures of someone Elizabeth was apparently having an argument with earlier on.’

  ‘Argument? What about?’

  ‘They didn’t hear what was said.’ Esme watched the old lady carefully as she passed the teacup. ‘Of course it might not be important. Elizabeth often plays the keeper of the castle. She likes people to take responsibility. Gemma and I thought she might have taken a litter lout to task.’

  Mrs Roberts took the cup. It rattled noisily in the saucer.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Roberts?’ asked Esme. ‘I know it’s not a very comforting subject but you seem…disturbed.’

  ‘I’m quite well, dear, thank you. As you say, not a nice subject.’ She placed the saucer on her lap and brought the cup to her lips with great care, sipping the sugary tea silently.

  ‘The police wondered whether she was meeting someone.’ Mrs Roberts made no comment. ‘I don’t suppose you would have any idea who that might be?’

  The old lady looked at Esme with astonishment. ‘Why should I know that?’ Her tone was defensive.

  ‘I wondered if she’d mentioned it, that’s all. It was the last day she came here.’

  ‘She never said she was meeting anyone.’ Mrs Roberts returned the cup and saucer noisily on the tray, her hands still shaking.

  Esme finished her tea and returned her owned cup and saucer.

  ‘As you may imagine,’ she began. ‘It has been a double shock with Elizabeth’s accident and then finding out about her…coming here. With Elizabeth unable to talk to us, I’d love to understand. Know a bit about you.’

  The old lady looked down at her hands in her lap. ‘It really ought to be Elizabeth who tells you.’

  ‘But we have no idea when that will be.’ Esme sensed the first stir of frustration. She couldn’t leave without learning something more. ‘Surely you can explain something without feeling it was betraying confidences? You did say she was planning to speak to us. After all, the truth’s out now, isn’t it? The main secret, so to speak.’

  Did a shadow pass across the old lady’s eyes then?

  Mrs Roberts shook her head. ‘It’s too complicated.’ She put her hand across her eyes.

  ‘What’s complicated?’

  ‘If only it wasn’t now.’

  ‘What do you mean: now? Do you mean because of Elizabeth’s attack?’ At the word ‘attack’ she incurred a sharp glance from the old lady.

  ‘It’s best I say no more.’ Mrs Roberts put her hands on the arms of the chair and pushed herself into a standing position. Esme got to her feet and moved the tray and table. She came around to the side and put her arm under the old lady’s elbow.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Esme. She lowered her voice. The conversation seemed to have taken on an air of conspiracy. ‘Why can’t you talk to me?’ Esme gave a short gasp and looked wide-eyed at the old lady. ‘You know something, don’t you? You know something about Elizabeth’s attack?’

  Mrs Roberts’s reply was terse. ‘Of course I don’t.’ She reached for her stick by the side of the chair and pulled her arm, none too gently, out of Esme’s grasp. Esme stood back. She cursed herself. She shouldn’t have pressed the old lady. Instead of learning more she had panicked her into erecting a barrier between them.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.’

  Mrs Roberts turned towards Esme and leant closer. Esme braced herself for a brusque censure but it never came. The old lady grabbed Esme’s arm and spoke in an exaggerated whisper.

/>   ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘All I can say is, it can’t be now. I can’t say anything now.’

  ‘But it might help. Find Elizabeth’s attacker I mean…’ whispered Esme, even though she knew she had nothing to suggest that was anywhere close to the truth. ‘Surely…’

  The old lady shook her head firmly. ‘Leave it.’ She gripped Esme’s arm. Her face was pale with anxiety. Esme could see fear in her eyes.

  ‘Please,’ Mrs Roberts begged. ‘Best not get involved.’

  7

  Esme was unloading the car outside her cottage, foolishly trying to carry books, food and research files in one trip. She had one eye on the rapidly approaching weather and did not relish being caught in another tumultuous shower as she went back and forth to the car.

  A black Audi glided past her in the lane as she manoeuvred herself around the bonnet. She glanced to see who it was but couldn’t make out anyone through the heavily tinted windows. It was probably the new people who were doing up the farmhouse at the end of the lane. Village gossip was they were spending money like water. Esme hoped the uncharitable assessment meant that they were investing sufficient funds to do a decent job. The old house was in need of both TLC and an aesthetic eye to ensure that what was done wasn’t to its detriment.

  The telephone started ringing as Esme bundled her way through the door. In her effort to get to the telephone before the answer-phone cut in, she lost the battle to balance her load and the pile cascaded from her arms and crashed on to the floor. She swore and snatched the receiver off its cradle.