Instead, Jess was by herself and, as she approached Darling House, such thoughts dissipated and the problems of the here and now returned. The light was on in the kitchen and the shadows of her last conversation with Polly came back to her. A lot had happened since their previous interaction; Jess had all but forgotten what had made her so angry in the first place. The feeling was familiar. This was how it always went with Polly: on the rare occasions when Jess got justifiably annoyed, her frustration would diminish over time, and she’d invariably come to feel that she’d been too quick to react, that she hadn’t been fair, that her mother deserved another chance. “She’s watched over by the angels,” Rachel had once said knowingly, when Jess described the phenomenon. Jess must have looked perplexed, because her friend went on to explain: “We all know someone like that. They’re less careful, less capable, and yet somehow the truly terrible things never happen to them. People want to help; they attract kindness—they’re looked after by guardian angels wherever they go.”
The idea had resonated with Jess. It certainly fit what she’d observed of Polly.
She steeled herself for the awkwardness of her return. She didn’t want to continue their animosity: she was too tired. She would gostraight to the kitchen, say hello, and then she would withdraw. The best thing for each of them was to get through the remaining day and then return to their separate lives.
Polly was just finishing washing up when Jess surprised her in the kitchen. A single plate and set of cutlery occupied the drying rack, and Jess felt a pang of sympathy, even though—as she reminded herself—she frequently ate alone. And this was exactly what she meant—Polly attracted sympathy for things that other people took in their stride.
“Hello there,” Jess said with a brittle cheerfulness. “Had a good day?”
After a split second of uncertainty, Polly smiled in greeting. “I have, thanks. You, too? You’ve been busy?”
“Yes.” Jess chafed at the coy indirectness of the question, declined to share more, and the pair fell to silence. “Well,” she said, after a couple of empty beats, “I’m very tired. I’m going to turn in early.”
“Before you go,” Polly said quickly, as Jess made to leave, “there’s some mail for you.”
This was a surprise. “For me? Here?”
Polly nodded, wiping her hands on the tea towel, and indicated the dining table. Two packages sat near the fruit bowl, both bearing US stamps. Jess could see that the first was the copy of Daniel Miller’s book she’d ordered via AbeBooks. The second, she gathered from the return address scribbled on the international mail slip, had come from Nancy Davis. She remembered now that Nancy had wanted to send something after Nora’s death. Not the bunch of flowers she’d assumed, apparently.
She was curious to know what was inside, but for a reason mysterious even to herself, she wouldn’t allow herself to seem even remotely intrigued in front of Polly. She gathered up the parcels and said a polite “Thanks” before heading upstairs to her room.
She opened the AbeBooks parcel first. An irony that within the space of two weeks she had managed to obtain three copies of Daniel Miller’s book. This was the 1980 edition and contained theaddendum that Polly had photocopied and attached at the back of her book. Jess opened it and flicked through the pages. There was rather more evidence of past use than she’d expected. Whoever had owned it previously appeared to have fancied themselves an amateur sleuth, using a pencil to annotate throughout, jotting down character observations, posing questions in the margins—and, most intriguingly, a list on the title page of poisons and possible murder methods.Sola dosis facit venenum,they’d written at the bottom:The dose makes the poison!Jess nodded as she saw the rat killer that Meg Summers had sold to Isabel Turner and the specimen that Evie had obtained for Matilda, but at the bottom of the list, with a question mark, was written a word she didn’t immediately recognize:Cyanotoxin?
Jess frowned. What was cyanotoxin? She typed the word into her phone. Streams of links appeared, from Wikipedia to the EPA and various scientific publications. A quick scan revealed that cyanotoxin was another name for blue-green algae. Jess read enough to glean that the toxin, produced by cyanobacteria, was found in all manner of places but especially waterways with a high concentration of phosphorus conditions. Cyanotoxins were among the most powerful natural poisons known to science, and in concentration could kill animals and humans. Some experimentation had even been done to investigate their potential military use as a biological weapon.
A bell started sounding faintly in Jess’s mind. She searched “blue-green algae” and “South Australia” and landed on the SA Health government website, which stated that water resources in South Australia were routinely monitored for blue-green algae. It went on to note that public health advice would be issued if blooms occurred. The Adelaide Hills was an agricultural region, Jess knew, and had been in the fifties—there was every chance runoff from phosphorous fertilizer and septic systems might have caused algae to bloom locally in December 1959. Further, if, as Jess suspected, Isabel had aidedthe Resistance during the war, it was possible she’d been aware of the poison’s experimental use as a weapon...
Then again, the Turner family had been swimming when Percy Summers found them. What if they’d filled their water bottles from the creek and the whole thing had been a ghastly accident, not a case of murder at all? Had the police and the medical examiner considered cyanotoxins? Would they have known to look for them back then?
Jess hadn’t heard back from the professor at the university, but she pulled up her previous email and sent another, apologizing for making contact again so soon, but asking whether blue-green algae might have been the culprit and, if so, whether it would have been detectable at the time.
She was eager to pore over all of the book’s previous owner’s notes—who knew what other helpful ideas might be scribbled in the margins?—but Nancy’s parcel was playing on her mind. Jess had avoided opening it, knowing that it would relate to Nora’s death and not sure whether she wanted to have her spirits dragged back to the place of fresh condolences, but it had been sent by courier—Nancy had been determined that Jess should receive it, and fast.
The parcel was soft, with an inordinate amount of tape sealing the padded envelope. Jess had to use her nail scissors to break into it. Inside she discovered a bubble-wrapped package and a letter.
Dear Jess,
I hope this letter finds you well, even as I know you will be dealing with immense grief at the loss of your grandmother. I wish I had the words to make it better, but you and I both know that there are no shortcuts where grief is concerned. Instead, I will simply say how sorry I am and send you solidarity along with my sincere and selfish gratitude that we were able to speak.
In writing to you now, I am also completing a promise made to my uncle. Enclosed with my letter is a package that turnedup when I was cataloguing Dan’s shed after his death. He had a safe deposit box, inside of which was this package and a note containing a set of instructions. In the event of Nora Turner-Bridges’s death, if contact was ever made by either her daughter, Polly, or granddaughter, Jessica, the package was to be sent to them. Dan’s preference was that Polly receive the package.
I know that your mother and grandmother had become estranged, while you and Nora remained as close as can be, and I am afraid that carrying out Dan’s instructions will be hurtful. But Dan was quite specific that the package was to be opened by Polly, if possible. I am forwarding it to you in the hopes that you will be able to pass it on to her, and with my apologies that I have no choice but to do as my uncle instructed.
I hope you will understand and look forward to speaking with you again soon.
Sending all my best wishes,
Nancy
Jess realized that she’d been holding her breath and she now let it out in a long, slow sigh. She scanned the letter again and then, after a moment’s contemplation, set it down and turned her attention to the accompanying package. No one would ever know if she were to open it herself. Nancy wasn’t here to see, and Polly had no idea who Nancy Davis was.
But—she smiled ruefully to herself—even as she had the thought, she knew she wasn’t going to go against Daniel Miller’s wishes. She pressed on the bubble wrap. There was something hard inside. Jess gave it a light shake and detected a rattle. The sound was vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place it.
Jess set the parcel down at arm’s length. It struck her, suddenly, that Nancy’s letter had quoted Daniel Miller as having mentionedPolly and herself by name. That he knew her mother’s name she could understand—he had met Polly as a baby—but how had he known hers?
Jess needed to know what the parcel contained. More than ever, she was convinced that some of the answers she’d been seeking were inside.
There was only one thing to do.
