Jess looked to where Polly was gesturing and then shrugged.
She didn’t remember.
Polly’s sudden plunge of despair was unexpected. It was an overreaction, of course: her daughter had been no more than three years old, practically a baby—no wonder she couldn’t remember. But Polly’s eyes stung, and she turned her face so that Jess wouldn’t see. Far more affecting than anything Polly had heard from Nora on the tape, Jess’s denial of their shared moment made Polly feel, in that moment, completely alone in the world.
35
Jess turned Polly’s story over in her mind as they walked back to the house from the cove. She was deeply unsettled by it. SherememberedNora rescuing her from the crabs—she could see her still in her mind’s eye. A tall figure, enormously tall, reaching down to pick her up; strong arms wrapped around her so that Jess felt eminently safe and protected. It had to have been Nora. Maybe Polly had heard the story and become mixed up over time? Nora had often said that Polly was impressionable. Or perhaps she’d become a bit confused in the aftermath of what they’d heard the night before.
She wasn’t the only one.
They parted ways at the entrance hall and Jess went upstairs to have a shower. She was still struggling to process what her grandmother had done, the secret she’d kept. No, not her grandmother, she realized—her... great-aunt? The correction sat uneasily.
Finding herself at a loss when she was dressed, and unsure how to pass the time until Nora’s solicitor arrived, Jess went back to the list of toxins that Rowena Carrick had sent with her email. The mechanical task was comforting; she was glad for the distraction.
By the time an hour had passed, she’d googled half the poisons on the list, cross-referencing against Daniel Miller’s book and the folder of contemporaneous newspaper articles she’d printed. It wasn’t the most scientific way of conducting a cold case investigation, but it was all she had. She wondered whether the police records could still be accessed, perhaps even the coroner’s report.
The court had found that poison was “likely” but “further facts” were needed to determine what might have caused such a “quiet death.” The inquest was adjourned sine die, in the hope that the required further facts would be discovered, but the city coroner hadsaid he would be “prepared to find that the family had died from a particular poison administered by Mrs. Turner.”
So far, none of the toxins from Rowena Carrick’s list fit the bill for a swift, “quiet” death. Jess had just eliminatedPenicillium roqueforti(lethal to rats in lab tests, but the quantity required to kill a human being was too large to have been practicable) when the doorbell rang. Crossing it off, she closed her laptop and went downstairs to open the door.
Leo Friedman had been Nora’s solicitor for as long as Jess had been aware such a person existed. He’d come to the house plenty of times while she was living with her grandmother, and, as was the norm where Nora was concerned, the two had developed a friendship outside their professional relationship. “Whether you need a plumber, a mechanic, or an optometrist,” Nora was fond of saying, “the place to start is in your own teledex.” No amount of outside research could sway her conviction that the peoplesheknew were the best, the most qualified, the only options she ever needed to consider.
In the case of Leo, it was quite possibly true. He had always struck Jess as a kind and decent man, with the sort of crumpled face and dustpan-brush moustache that inclined a person to trust him. (“One of his greatest attributes,” Nora had said with a wink when Jess mentioned it. “People always underestimate a kind face.”)
Today, when he arrived, his face was arranged in a suitably somber expression. “Jessica,” he said when he saw her. “Let me say again how sorry I am for your loss.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket to pat perspiration from the rim of his balding head. Only eight in the morning, but it was already very warm.
“Thank you, Mr. Friedman.”
“Leo, please.”
“Leo.”
“Is your mother here?”
“She is. Would you like to come inside?”
Jess directed Mr. Friedman into the kitchen, where they could allsit together at the table. She and Polly had agreed already that they wouldn’t mention anything they’d learned from the tape. There was no need for Leo to know; it would only serve to complicate matters.
Polly brought over the jug of iced tea she’d made and set it on the table atop a tray with three highball glasses. It struck Jess as a quaint thing to do, something her mother might have observed on television, or gleaned from a book and been convinced was de rigueur in the boardroom. But when Leo Friedman reached gratefully for the jug, pouring himself a long drink and then complimenting Polly on the flavor, Jess had to admit that on this occasion her mother had got it right.
Leo Friedman took from his briefcase a cardboard folder with Nora’s name written in black marker along the vertical tab. He opened it, setting the top page to one side, before launching into a long-winded summary of the will’s rather straightforward contents. Nora had split everything between Polly and Jess, with a few provisions relating to her business, trusts, and charities, and a small stipend each for Mrs. Robinson and Patrick. Then he said, “Your grandmother was very specific in her wishes. She came to see me some time ago—when she went into the hospital to have her gallbladder operation. She wanted me to make an addition to her will. It concerns you, Jessica. I think it’s best if I read it, if that’s all right with the two of you?”
Jess exchanged a glance with Polly; Mr. Friedman’s words were a surprise, his tone difficult to interpret. She nodded and he began to read: “‘Finally, I have a special request to make of my granddaughter, Jessica Turner-Bridges. In the attic of my home in Sydney, Darling House, there is a bookcase. The bookcase conceals a doorway, behind which is a small storeroom. Inside the storeroom is a traveling case. In the event of my death, I would like my granddaughter, Jessica Turner-Bridges, to retrieve the case and destroy it. It is not to be opened; its contents are not to be inspected or retained. I make this request trusting that it will be respected and followed. We are all allowed personal matters in our lives, and I trust that Jessica will agree that one’s right to privacy continues after death.’”
Likely, Leo Friedman had never had a meeting end so abruptly as the gathering that day at Darling House. Jess was on her feet almost as soon as he’d finished reading, thanking him again for coming so early and ushering him to the door. It was all she could do not to rush upstairs to the attic and push the bookcase out of place. As it was, she wasted little time once the door was closed in turning to Polly and saying, “Should we go and have a look?”
“You should,” said Polly. “I still have to pack for the flight this afternoon.” Her expression was one of delicate consideration as she continued: “Nora entrusted this task to you. She loved you enormously; nothing will ever change that fact.”
The words struck a nerve. Jess had been trying not to think about how cast adrift she’d felt in the wake of Nora’s confession. For as long as she could remember, being the granddaughter of Nora Turner-Bridges had been the steel in her spine. She knew that family was more than biology—but that was abstract knowledge. It didn’t do much for how a person felt deep down.
Jess didn’t want to admit weakness in front of Polly, though, and she wasn’t ready to address Nora’s confession front on, not right now, and so she nodded polite agreement and headed upstairs alone.
The attic was warm, and Jess felt a ripple of purpose as she crossed the circular rug and passed through the filtering dust motes to reach the bookcase. She assessed the piece of furniture, gave it a little shove, and was pleasantly surprised to find that it moved without too much trouble.
Once the door behind it was on full show, Jess found it almost impossible to believe that she’d never found it before. It seemed so obvious. Darling House was just the sort of place, and this just the sort of attic, that should feature a secret room. She remembered hergrandmother’s entreaties not to play upstairs, her warnings that it was dangerous. Evidently, Nora had nursed other reasons for wanting to keep her curious granddaughter from the attic.
The traveling case was old and beautiful, and when Jess saw the name stenciled in gold paint along the top, she felt a frisson of excitement:mlle amélie f. pinot.This was the trunk that Isabel Turner had inherited after her French mother’s death, that had arrived at her flat in London and from which she’d unpacked the “sea of heirlooms and trinkets,” among them the favorite teacup that had traveled with her to Australia, only to be dropped and shattered in the vegetable garden at Halcyon on Christmas Eve morning, 1959.
