“Do I know you?” she asked in a tear-filled voice.
How to begin a difficult conversation, I thought. I introduced myself and saw her confusion deepen.
“Lady Forsythe?”
“I telephoned your residence and was told that you were here. Forgive the intrusion, I know this must be very difficult.”
“A young woman such as yourself? What would you know about how difficult this is, how painful, how empty my life is now...?”
Grief.
I supposed that it was different for everyone. I could have replied that I knew quite well what it was to lose someone I loved and the aftermath of loss that followed, but I did not.
I felt her pain, and the anguish I saw in the expression on her face. But this was not about me. It wasn’t even about her. It was about a young woman’s murder and a boy who was now orphaned. It was about Brodie.
“I’m making inquiries about the murder of Ellie Sutton.”
That tear-filled gaze met mine. I could only imagine the chaos of emotions behind it. She rose suddenly, and I noticed the cane she used to steady herself.
“I must be going.”
She slowly started across the clearing toward the foot path. I laid a hand on her arm.
The grey lady, the man at the cottage had described her. Most certainly an accurate description of the woman who was hardly more than a handful of years older than myself, and stared back at me now.
I explained that I was making inquiries on behalf of Angus Brodie, who was with the MET and had investigated her son’s death ten years earlier, and now the murder of the young woman who was there the night her son was killed.
“I cannot help you.” She pulled away and would have continued down the path.
I pulled the toy locomotive from my bag. “You gave this to Ellie Sutton’s son.”
She stopped and stared at the toy in my hand, a different emotion on her face now. She reached out and took the toy locomotive in trembling hands.
“Rory,” she whispered, a faint broken sound. “Is he…?”
A name I hadn’t known until that moment. I felt a deep pang of guilt for the distress I caused.
“He’s safe,” I assured her. “Mr. Brodie was there that night, afterward,” I explained. “He made certain Ellie’s son is safe.”
She nodded as she stared down at the locomotive. Her gloved hands shook as she stroked the toy.
“I left this for to her to give to him...a birthday gift, even though I had no idea when his birthday might be.”
I heard a sound from the brush nearby. She heard it as well, and the look on her face was startling, as if she thought someone else was there. Someone she was afraid of.
It was the hound. He appeared with a stick in his mouth.
“It’s all right,” I assured her. “He came with me.”
She relaxed slightly. “Stephen was fond of dogs, but he wasn’t allowed to have one…” she said with a glance back at that headstone. “I really must be going. Thank you for bringing this. It means a great deal to me. I had hoped…” she started to say, then added, “I cannot stay.”
“Mr. Brodie was seen there the night Ellie Sutton was killed,” I told her then. “He is now facing charges for her murder.”
There was something else in her eyes, something almost fearful.
“What do you want …?” she demanded in a voice that trembled.
“The name on the headstone should be Matthews...but it is not.”
