She took the key Edmund had given her – and never asked for back – which she kept hidden under her mattress in the room she was sharing with Iona and opened the study.
It took nearly an hour to root through the items on the desk, go through the chest again and move and replace everything on the shelves. She hadn’t found anything related to her mother and was starting to lose hope.
She sat on her father’s chair with the chest open. Her mother’s journal was where she had left it and although she had read it cover to cover the last time she had been in the study, she decided to go through it again, page by page.
Most of the entries were everyday life, which was on the one hand exactly what Aila wanted them to be – just snippets of her mum. But, on the other hand, she wanted to find something damning, dark, conclusive. Some clue in her mother’s words that her father had done this.
Despite not knowing for certain, Aila was confident of her father’s guilt. DI Hill’s mention of Horace made her suspect him too, but the two men had very different modus operandis when it came to their abuse.
She knew Horace’s motivations – depraved lust and a need for power – but she suspected her father’s physical abuse of her mother had been about control. Keeping her, and by extension Aila, away from other people.
And she imagined losing that control, even for a moment, would have been enough to send him over the edge.
She scoured the diary until her head started to ache from the concentration. She flicked to the back cover.
The frayed leather had bald areas from age, and on some of the bald areas were pen marks. One near the top of the page read ‘Heather’ in loop-filled cursive whilst another had doodle of a flowery pattern.
Nearer the bottom was another empty space and written in tiny letters were the numbers ‘1949’.
It seemed odd until Aila noticed that the handwriting was different, the shade of the ink was darker and the digits didn’t swoop and curl in the same way. It was her father’s handwriting rather than her mother’s.
She knew what ‘1949’ meant – it was her father’s birth year – but she suspected he hadn’t written it down for its sentimental significance.
She tried to imagine where her mother’s diary would have been when she was alive. Most likely, her bedside table.
Aila headed to her father’s bedroom, which wasn’t locked like his study. It was a grandiosely decorated room, plush furnishings everywhere and expensive Pre-Raphaelite paintings, but it was smaller than most bedroom in the castle due to the extended living area that branched off from it in the other room.
She walked slowly around the bed, imaging her mother laying on her side, journal in hand, the end of her pen in her mouth as she tried to think about what to write next. The bedside table was still there, barely touched since her mother’s death, although her hairbrush and rings no longer lived there.
Aila realised with a moment of clarity what the number was for – next to her mother’s bedside table stood the small safe.
She imagined her father setting the code, not wanting to forget it and writing it down on the first piece of paper he could find – the book on the bedside table. She wondered if her mother ever noticed the four small numbers scribbled on the back.
It was where her father kept petty cash – money not associated with the business or the estate. She had seen inside it many times before when her father had taken her out and first retrieved money from the safe, but she hadn’t known the code.
It was an old safe, the dial turned to each number to open it. Aila threw caution to the wind and input the four digits.
With a satisfying thunk it opened.
There were no neatly bound wedges of cash like there usually were, just a single brown envelope.
She reached inside and removed it.
It was bound with a string tie which she undid carefully before removing the contents and starting to read.
The sound of tyres on gravel shook Aila from her thought process. She returned the papers to the envelope and closed the safe, making sure everything was as she had found it.
She ran to the study and did the same, locking the door behind her and returning the key to its hiding place.
“Aila!” She heard her father call, drunken warmth in his tone as she had suspected, “Our friends are staying for a night cap!”
Whilst unexpected, Aila was pleased she would get to see Will, and headed down the stairs to the main living area of the castle.
“A fine man,” John declared, slapping Will’s dad on the back so hard he grabbed the back of an armchair to steady himself. “Whiskey?” John asked, although it wasn’t really a question – John only kept aged whiskey and occasionally ginger ale in his drinks caddy.
“Uh, certainly!” Will’s dad said, taking the glass sheepishly.
“Did you get anything?” Will whispered as he came over to Aila and kissed her on the cheek.
“Not what I wanted, but something,” she said with a face of thunder.
“Oh dear,” Will said, “I’m sorry.”
“I appreciate your help,” Aila said, “But I think I need to handle this next part.”
Chapter Seventeen
September 1995
Aila had dug out her old leather horse riding gloves from the back of her wardrobe, a gift from Fenella one Christmas who was an avid horsewoman. Although Aila had never taken to the sport, despite Fenella’s encouragement and the huge stables on the grounds, Aila had kept the gloves, using them some winters when she went walking with Matilda.
After the snowdrop’s stung her hands, she had worn gloves to cover the marks and protect them from the elements, a memory that guided her now as she headed back towards the river.
She remembered Matilda’s words as she let the berry hang against her gloved hand. Shining purple, almost like a precious stone.
She didn’t know how many she would need, so she picked a handful, placing them carefully into some newspaper and heading back to the castle.
She only had an hour before her father returned from his meeting with a potential investor for the cider business.
She unlocked the study and grabbed the tea chest he kept on his sideboard. She headed to a guest room and into the en suite. In the bathtub, she opened the tea chest and took out the tea bags. She assembled a small bowl she had taken from the kitchen with a mixture of flour and warm water in it, a needle and the berries, which she carefully placed into the bathtub.
She used the needle to gently rip apart the join of the teabag, creating a small and neat opening. She squished the berries against her fingers and carefully placed small parts of into the bags.
Once all twenty teabags were filled with parts of the berry, she took the flour mixture and resealed each bag. Once they had dried, she returned them to the chest, heart pounding.
She needed an outside eye to tell her if the teabags looked tampered with, but was impossible, so she trusted her own judgement – the seams were joined back up carefully and the berry parts weren’t visible from the outside.
She returned the wooden tea chest to the study and locked the door, returning to the guest bathroom to dispose of the remaining berries and rinse the gloves with bleach.
She cleaned the bathroom from top to bottom scrubbing any mark that looked purple, scared that even a single drop of purple juice would be enough.
Two days earlier
“How did you get into my safe?” Aila’s father shouted.
“You left it open,” Aila lied, wielding the paper.
“That’s not possible,” he dismissed.
“Let’s stay on topic,” Aila said, hoping his rage would be enough to cloud his logic, “This says that in the event of your death, whilst it may be in my name, control of the estate goes to Fenella. Like a regent. It even says Iona will have shared power. Only after everyone else is dead, do I, your only child, have full control of my inheritance.”
“Naturally,” Aila’s father scoffed, “Why on ear
th would you think it would go to you? You may be my child, but you are impulsive, unacademic, unfocused – you don’t have what it takes to run an estate, let only all of the businesses your Granda’ and I set up.”
“It’s my birthright,” Aila said stonily. She couldn’t deny that she wasn’t well-suited to the task, but she had always assumed the estate would pass to her.
“That may be, but I would not be honouring our ancestors if I left this place in your hands alone. Fenella is an astute woman, not to mention my sister. Your Granda’ raised both of us to understand how to run this place. She will be the perfect person to guide you if or when I pass before her.”
“You don’t love me,” Aila whispered, tears forming in the corners of her eyes, “You push me aside and underestimate me time and time again.”
“For goodness’ sake,” Aila’s father replied, “You sound just like your mother sometimes.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” Aila said, eyes flaring with anger.
“She always said I should give her more responsibility, allow her more power here. You need to learn what she had to learn – the world owes you nothing, accept your place in it or do something about it.”
Do something about it. No doubt he meant prove herself to him, but Aila’s blood was boiling.
“Is that why you killed her?” Aila said, looking him squarely in the eyes.
John felt for his desk chair and sat down, not keeping his eyes off of Aila. He didn’t say anything, but the look that passed between them reinforced her suspicions.
Aila turned to leave, and John added, “Don’t talk about things you don’t understand.”
“I understand,” she said, closing the study door.
They didn’t talk for days after, Aila avoiding him as much as possible, but the look on his face every time their paths crossed only fanned the flames of hatred burning in her. She had her confirmation.
Chapter Eighteen
September 1995
Aila knew all about revenge. Will had lent her book after book in which the main character enacted their revenge. It was a victorious act and yet one of desperation, a reaction to pain.
What she hadn’t realised about revenge is that whilst it was spurred by the fast-gathering storm of her rage, it was slow.
Slow and quite dull. Not at all like she expected.
The passing days gave her time to reflect. Someone else would have changed their mind, been struck with fear at the length of time it took and called a doctor.
Not Aila.
She thought only of her mother. Of the man pulling her by the hair. Of the description of her bruised body. Of the terror of her death.
Her only concern as the days ticked by was that the poison wouldn’t work.
John Douglas had two cups of tea every day from the tea chest he kept in his study. He had done ever since he moved the business from his father’s offices in the village to the castle, preferring to keep away from the rest of Dunmistle.
It remained a ritual for him, steeping a bag in his cup, lifting it out with a spoon and placing it into the bin by his feet, pouring in a splash of milk, and finishing by adding two spoons of sugar.
He didn’t make the connection between his growing headache and the tea. The sugar masked any taste of the belladonna berries and the milk blended the golden brown of the tea leaves with the staining purple of the berries.
Aila found herself returning from school more eagerly than ever, heading to her father’s study to watch him.
His movements were staggered more and more as the days went by, the headaches and delirium reaching a peak.
She started to worry that someone would notice – particularly Edmund – but no one did. John was not the sort of man to mention feeling unwell, preferring to down whiskey in the evenings to abate any concern he had for his health.
A week after Aila had added the berries, Will turned up at her house. She gingerly invited him in and for the first time thought about the consequences.
Will was a good person; he would be horrified if he knew what she was doing.
She kept him away from her father as much as possible, taking him for a picnic in the rose garden, reading their books side by side as they often did.
After a couple of hours, her father walked by, heading from the castle towards the orchard.
“Bit early for him to be drunk,” Will muttered as he nudged Aila’s arm to indicate she should look up.
John was walking with purpose, but his gait was broken, and he stumbled every few strides. Aila was relieved to see that he did look like he was drunk.
“Nah, he’s been pounding it back recently,” Aila said as casually as she could.
“Wonder why,” Will said, returning to his book without a second glance at John, who was now leaning against a tree in the orchard, out of breath and looking unsteady.
Aila watched him, praying Will wouldn’t see, but he didn’t look up, too engaged in his book to be concerned.
Her father circled the tree, heading back into the castle. She wondered if the poison was affecting his mind, or if he had actually intended to walk somewhere and thought better of it given how ill he seemed to be.
“I’ll see you soon,” Will said, kissing Aila with a hand against her cheek, “Maybe tomorrow?”
“Sounds great,” Aila said.
As soon as Will had left, she headed upstairs to her father’s study. It was growing dark now, the autumn sunset leaving a faint pink haze over the castle.
She pushed the door gently to gain a sliver of a view into the room.
Her heart stopped as she surveyed the scene.
The study was just as it always was, a half-drunk cup of tea on the desk.
But her father was in his chair, arms hanging limply by his sides.
She pushed the door quietly and walked over to him. Placing two fingers against his neck, she felt for his pulse and found nothing.
Tears started to stream down her face, out of shock or regret, she wasn’t sure, but she knew time was of the essence.
She grabbed the half-drunk tea and emptied it into the guest bathroom she had used before.
She emptied the contents of the teabags into the toilet and flushed them down, some purple marks staining the white porcelain, which she scrubbed with bleach until the bowl shone again.
She refilled the tea chest with fresh teabags from the kitchen, grateful that the kitchen staff had gone home for the night. They were unlikely to notice the handful that she had taken as she knew her father restocked the tea chest regularly.
She checked the pot of water her father used for his tea – still warm. She poured out a new cup of tea with one of the replacement bags, stashing the old one in her room until she could throw it in the river later.
She wiped over the objects she had touched and lifted her father’s hand to the new cup, gripping his lifeless fingers around the handle and the side.
With a final look over the scene, she steadied her breathing, encouraged fresh tears from her eyes and burst from the study.
“HELP! HELP! SOMEONE PLEASE HELP!”
I felt the love of an angel today,
For the first time since I walked away.
I've felt guilt and shame for so many years,
But the angel freed me of that through my tears
~ James Polk
Chapter Nineteen
September 1995
“Come on, we have to leave him, the ambulance will be here in a minute,” Edmund said, pulling Aila who was knelt by her father, holding his hand and weeping uncontrollably.
“I can’t leave him!” she sobbed.
“DI Hill,” Aila heard a woman say behind her, several pairs of shoes entering the room, “I’m the lead detective with the Dunmistle branch of the police,” she added, “I’m sorry, but I need to close off the scene.”
She tried not to let her shock at hearing Hill’s name show on her face, doubling over in fresh tears.
“Why?” Edmund s
aid.
“Standard procedure,” DI Hill replied. Aila looked up in confusion – this wasn’t the DI Hill from her mother’s case, instead a woman of around thirty was surveying the room, two EMTs following her and heading to her father’s body. She had the same blue eyes of George Hill, and Aila realised she was his daughter.
Is it standard procedure? Aila thought, thinking back to detective books she had read. The EMTs hadn’t even looked over the body yet – why would they be suspicious of wrongdoing with no mention of break-in or violent death.
Aila wondered if it was personal – there had been a lot of police activity at the castle in her lifetime with her mother and Horace’s disappearances.
“Please, you need to leave the room, I’m sorry,” DI Hill said kindly.
Edmund, although visibly upset, was insistent and Aila followed him from the room, keeping the tears running from her eyes as much as she could.
The days between finding her father dead and the detective returning were excruciating. Aila ran through every detail in her mind. Why had a detective even arrived on the scene?
The detective had asked for a coroner to determine cause of death, Fenella and Edmund agreeing. The police had no reason to suspect poison, but Aila was still concerned they might run the checks.
DI Hill asked Fenella, Edmund and Aila to meet with her, sitting in the dining room of the castle.
The four of them felt strange sat around the banquet-sized table, especially without any food, but Fenella had thought it the most appropriate location for the news.
“Please, just tell us,” Fenella said quietly as DI Hill sat down.
“A heart attack,” DI Hill said gently, “It will have been quick.”
“Oh god,” Fenella said through tears.
“We were initially concerned that the cause of death was suspicious – whoever rang the ambulance mentioned that the safe was empty,” DI Hill said.
“That was me,” Edmund said, “I noticed the safe was empty earlier that day and thought it was odd.”
The Three Lives of Aila Douglas Book 2 Page 6
