Lord Hocking, as you’ll be by the time you read this, how strange to call you that! We used to laugh about it, do you remember? You said you’d buy one of those funny tall hats and a pair of britches like you’re a dashing hero in a Jane Austen novel. Are you wearing them now? Well, either way, my Lord (and I don’t say that teasingly, I swear), I’ll leave it up to you. If, by some chance, you actually find this.
Twelfth Night. Seems a little childish, doesn’t it, but we were children, weren’t we? Rosemary’s favourite play. I remember the first time I saw you perform it, that was before you ever saw me. You were both so young still, youthful and laughing. And I thought, I’d give anything, do anything, to be the one who made them laugh like that. You’re not laughing now, though, are you?
Well, it’s out of my hands and for that I am grateful. Oh, don’t think ill of me dears, don’t think me a coward. Though, perhaps I am. Can’t be any more though I can I? Have to be brave, all mothers are brave, braver than anyone thinks.
Look after each other. And give my love to everyone, Maud and Dennis, Daria. And congratulations to you, you’ll make an excellent father, however many children you have.
Goodbye, my darling boys. I promise, with all my heart, that I will be a good mother to them.
With love,
Selene.
I dropped the page down and slumped back against the chair, taking a long swig of tea.
“Bugger me,” I muttered under my breath, only Mills close enough to hear. The silence dragged on and on, as the family processed Selene’s words. What she told them, what she confirmed. Richard Sandow was not Sebastian’s father. His father sat just to the side from me, head cradled by his hands, shoulders bowed as if the world had fallen on them. Our robber had chosen the right house, chosen the right man. Only, they chose the wrong place to look. I folded the letter back up and tucked it into my pocket, a useful bit of evidence if ever there was one, and I’d need it for the next time I spoke to Richard Sandow.
“Did--” Rupert began but broke off, clearing his throat. “Did she say ‘them’?”
Everyone lifted their heads, turning to gawp at him. He wasn’t paying any mind, staring up at the ceiling like he was mapping out constellations.
“Them,” Lady Hocking repeated, placing the sonogram down on the table, fingers tracing the shapes. Two shadows.
“Twins,” Mills voiced it aloud. “She had twins.”
The realisation of that reeled through me. Sebastian was at the bottom of my list. He wanted no part in any of this. But a twin?
“He didn’t say he had a twin,” I muttered.
“Maybe he didn’t know,” Dennis answered. His face brightened suddenly, and he turned away, jogging through the hallways. I watched him go and then turned back to the family.
“Can you find out?” Lord Hocking’s voice grated as he spoke. “Can you find out who they are?”
“We can try,” I answered. It wouldn’t be easy. If the child died, or was adopted, finding the right channels to go through would take weeks, months even. And it might all be for nothing. Sebastian’s face crossed my mind, and I wondered how much he knew. About his mother and this place, about the brothers. If he was ignorant about this, if Selene had lied to him about this, what else had gotten lost in translation?
“You didn’t perform it again,” Lady Hocking said to her husband. “You were supposed to perform it every Christmas, but you didn’t. Not after then.”
I met her gaze across the room, clever woman. Her and Selene both. Selene had counted on that yearly ritual, on putting on the play for their sister. It would have given her time to think, to plan. Only they never did the play. Rosemary died, and the book stayed right where it was. Untouched, for decades.
Feet clattered behind me, and Dennis returned, Maud in tow. She looked at the sonogram on the table and let out a sob, her hand rising to her mouth. I stood, making room for her on the sofa, and she folded gently down. I knelt beside her, taking her shaking hand in mine.
“She didn’t tell you, did she?” I asked her gently.
She shook her head. “I wasn’t there,” she croaked, “at the birth. She never said.”
“You knew?” Lord Hocking stared at Maud as his mind caught up. “You knew about the child?”
“I knew she had one, and that he was one of yours,” Maud replied, “but she never did tell me whose he was.”
“You met him?” Lady Hocking inquired.
“I helped her,” Maud answered proudly, “as much as she would let me. The odd bit of babysitting, a little clean here and there, a spot of dinner in the oven for her. It was just the two of them.” She pulled her aghast eyes from the picture and looked at me. “What happened?”
“We don’t know yet. But we’ll find out. If the twin is alive, we’ll find out who they are. And speak with Sebastian,” I added. “Find out what he knows.”
“Sebastian,” Lord Hocking finally said the name aloud, his eyes falling on the battered copy of Shakespeare.
“I want to meet him,” Henry announced.
“I’ll let him know,” I said, standing up from my squat, knees creaking. “We should get on. Sooner we get this ball rolling, the sooner we get these questions answered. In the meantime, I’d think about how to get ahead of this if I were you. The robber wants something, make sure they don’t get it.”
“I’ve upped the security,” Dennis informed me. “The cameras are fully functional at every entrance and exit.”
“Good man.” I clapped him on the shoulder, rather regretful that I’d been such a staunch opponent of his to begin with.
“I’ll head to the walking path,” Henry decided, rubbing his face, “check out the parking situation. I could use the fresh air.”
“You want company?” Rose asked, looking backwards up at him.
He smiled down at her and flicked her on the nose. “Come on then, Rosie.”
She got up, squeezing her mother’s hand as they drifted from the living room.
“Tea, mama?” Rupert bounded to his feet and offered his hand to his mother. She looked pale, somewhat stricken, and yet, not overly shocked. Perhaps she had resigned herself to this possibility ever since she first learnt of Selene. Or perhaps she was unshakeable. Brave, as Selene said all mothers were.
She reached up and gripped her son’s hand, letting him take her weight as she rose and led her away through the kitchen. She touched Maud’s shoulder, and the maid clambered up, following after them, Dennis too, until only Mills and I remained with Lord Hocking.
“We couldn’t face it,” he said, staring at the fireplace, “not with Selene and Rosemary both gone. Couldn’t put on a play, not without them there in the audience. I haven’t read that play since before Henry was born.” He shook his head and looked up at me.
“I’ve let them down,” he muttered softly, “all of them.” He rose, clasping his hands behind his back. “You have work to be getting on with, gentlemen, work that does not entail handling our family mess. Allow me to walk you out.”
“Thank you, Lord Hocking.”
“My apologies for dragging you into all of this,” he said over his shoulder as we walked back into the entrance hall.
“It’s part of the job,” I assured him. “We end up involved more often than we care to be.”
“Makes you good with people, I imagine. I was never much good with people.”
“Me neither, in truth. But we learn.”
He gave a weak chuckle and opened the front door. “And my sincerest apologies for what became of you, Sergeant Mills. I can assure that fixing that door is top of the list for the house.”
Mills didn’t answer, and I didn’t blame him. What was he to say? No, it's fine that I almost suffocated, thank you for trying to keep your house from being a death trap? He offered a grim sort of smile and pottered down the steps, heading to the car.
“I’ll keep you updated, Lord Hocking. And if I can, I’ll get your painting back to you.”
He
chuckled again. “You know, Inspector, in all that’s happened today, I’d rather forgotten about the painting.” He scratched the back of his head, looking older, and exhausted.
I felt some sympathy for the man, he was in for a rough few months, so I offered him a hand, which he shook and a brief smile before jogging down the steps to Mills and jumped into the car. I drove us down the drive and off the estate, pulling into a small layby off the main road, turning the engine off and we sat there for a moment, bewildered.
“I’m tired,” Mills said, sounding surprised by the fact. “Are you tired?”
“Weirdly exhausted. You’ve more reason to be than I do,” I added. “I should probably take you to a doctor.”
“I doubt that’s necessary, sir.”
“Lena can take a look at you then,” I decided, starting the engine back up. “We’ll need something to do to kill the time, anyway. Searching for children born over twenty years ago is a hell of a process.”
“You think the twin is involved?”
“I think they might have more reason than anyone else to be angry if they are,” I pointed out. “Sebastian is bitter enough towards the Hockings, but at least he had his mother. We don’t know what became of his twin.”
“Unless” Mills started hesitantly, “he lied about having any siblings.”
“Maud too?” I shook my head. “I’ll wager that whatever the circumstances, Sebastian Whitlock did not grow up with a sibling.”
“Will he want to meet them, do you think? Sebastian, I mean, wanting to meet Henry and the others?”
“We’ll certainly offer it. I’m not sure if we should even tell him.”
“So, let his mother do it.” He nodded to the letter in my coat pocket. “It might be comforting hearing it from her than us.”
Or it might make him even angrier, I thought, but I nodded anyway. It would be better for him to learn about his father in a way that wasn’t so, clinical, I supposed.
“So, what next, then, sir?”
“We’ll head back to the station, update Sharp before she tracks us down like a bloodhound. Get in touch with welfare, see if we can find the channels to go down and let Crowe have a poke at your lungs while we wait.”
“Delightful.”
“And since you’ve had such a trying day, I’ll buy you a pint before we call it a day. Won’t be much to do until tomorrow, in any case.”
Mills was quiet for a moment, watching the fields blow past. “Will she really poke my lungs?”
“I’d say no, but when it comes to Lena Crowe, I’m none the wiser.”
Mills laughed through his nose and checked his phone. “Nothing from our art dealer,” he murmured, “so it’s not being sold. Yet.”
“Not surprised. Though things might move a bit more quickly now.”
“Wishful thinking that, sir.”
“I know,” I muttered through my teeth, “I sound like you.”
Twenty-Five
Thatcher
I stopped off at the coaching house before calling it a night, wanting to make sure everything was holding in the rain. A storm was due tonight, Crowe had told us as such as she gave Mills a quick once over; perfectly fine of course, but better safe than sorry. I unlocked the chain across the door and shoved myself in. I’d left the bowls and basins lying around, just in case, but the roof was holding, and there were no plinking drips echoing around the room. It was rather quiet without them. I stuck my hands in my pockets and headed up the stairs, reinforcing those was next on the list, and went up again into the wide loft. Gran had used it as a painting space, the long narrow room taking up most of the roof, little round windows on either end. The rain was loud up here, thundering against the pitched slate. I wandered to the far window, looking back into the garden, to the sprawling oak. Up here, we were on the same level. I could probably reach out and touch the branches if I wanted to. It was cold up here, noisy and dustier than any of the other rooms, but it was dry. Thank god for that. Mother had liked it up here too, liked the stained-glass window and being on the same level as the trees. I hadn’t been up here for some time, a long time.
It got easier each time I came into the house, each time I put something back in the right place or patched up a hole. It got easier. Easier to look at pictures of her without guilt rising up and swallowing me whole. But it wasn’t good enough, and I knew it wasn’t, whatever Elsie might say. She was gone, end of.
I made sure all the windows were locked or boarded up in anticipation of the storm and headed out, glancing at Elsie’s cottage before climbing into my car. It was dark downstairs, but her bedroom light was on, dimmed through the closed curtains.
The day had been long, and it had dragged painfully slowly. Sharp had taken one look at Mills and me, had taken Selene’s letter and the task of following up with welfare and ushered us from the station. As promised, I fetched Mills a pint, and we sat in the pub, either silent or talking about absolute rubbish until it was a reasonable hour to start yawning and head for home. I was looking forward to it now, zipping along the country lanes and back to the bright lights of the city. My street was quiet as I pulled into the driveway, most of the houses dark by now. At least the sky wasn’t, the nights were drawing longer again, finally, though today, a large dark cloud was pushing its way over, heavy and humid. I shut myself in the house, crawling into bed in a pair of pyjama bottoms with my teeth hastily brushed, sheets drawn over my head as the first roll of thunder came down from the moors.
My phone rang as I was getting ready the next morning, Sally’s face lighting up the screen. I answered, holding the phone against my shoulder as I padded down the stairs for some food.
“When did you get back, and why are you calling me so early?”
“Hello to you too,” she answered dryly. “Yesterday. And I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s personal.”
“Never mind then,” I replied, flicking the kettle on.
“Max.”
“Sally.”
“What happened with Molly?”
I paused, a mug dangling from my fingers. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you went out, didn’t you?”
“We did,” I answered, putting the mug down and rubbing my face. I was too tired for this. I made a bowl of cereal, eating as I waited for her to carry on.
“And? What happened? You haven’t called her in ages.”
“She hasn’t called me,” I corrected her.
“Explain?” she asked, her voice sounded breathless, and I realised she was walking. Last night’s storm had cooled the air down, leaving the day brisk.
“We had a lovely few weeks,” I told her through a mouthful of cereal, filling up my travel mug when the kettle boiled, “and then I got a phone call at five in the morning. That murder down on the riverside, remember?”
“Bloody hell that was a gristly one. She didn’t like that?”
“The murder was fine. It’s the vanishing at five in the morning and not getting back to her until the following five in the morning she didn’t like.”
“You didn’t get back to her until the following five in the morning?” Sally exclaimed, breath huffing.
“A man was dead!” I defended myself, putting my bowl in the sink and trying to smooth my hair into a more professional demeanour. It wasn’t happening, so I picked up my flat cap from the coat rack and slung that on.
“So, she hasn’t called you?” Sally asked, her voice sounding a touch more sympathetic than she first had.
“I told her to let me know what she wants to do. Not everyone likes the inspector schedule, Sally dear.”
In fact, I’d only ever met one person who could put up with it, and that’s only because if anything, hers was worse.
“Why are you asking me all this, anyway? At this hour of the day?”
“I just had coffee with her,” she explained, muttering sorry to someone as she skirted about. Sally liked to walk fast, slow walkers annoye
d her like nothing else, but she often went careening into other people as she rounded corners or crossed roads.
“Ah.”
“Thought I’d talk to you about it. No.” I could picture her shaking her head. “If Molly can't handle your work hours, that’s not your fault.”
“Thank you.”
“Though maybe you should work a little less.”
“Unkind,” I informed her, putting her on speaker as I pulled my coat on.
Sally scoffed. “When you’re not working, where are you?”
“Home.”
“Liar. You spend every free minute of yours at that old place.”
“The roof’s not leaking anymore,” I informed her proudly.
There was a brief pause. “Really?”
“Mm-hm.”
“I’m impressed.”
My doorbell rang, and I peered out the kitchen window to spot Mills loitering outside.
“I have to go, Sally. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”
“Seven o’clock don’t be late. Lots of love!” she called down the phone.
“Lots of love,” I replied, hanging up and slipping the phone into my pocket, reaching for the front door and letting Mills inside.
“Morning, sir.”
“Mills.”
“That storm last night,” he muttered with a shake of the head, leaning against the wall as I put my shoes on. “Apparently, they’re only getting worse.”
“According to Lena?” I asked, standing and grabbing my things.
“Her, and the MET office.”
“Brilliant,” I muttered, ushering him from the house and locking the door behind us.
“I got a call from Sharp,” Mills told me as we walked to his car. “All’s good with welfare. They’ll expect us as half ten.”
I nodded, clambering into his passenger seat, surprised when I didn’t kick any small creatures as I did so.
“You cleaned your car?”
“I did.”
“I’m impressed.”
DCI Thatcher Yorkshire Crime Thrillers: Books 1-3 Page 46
