Jess nodded.
“Wonderful. Have you met my grandson, Jasper?” He was beaming at the young man, who rolled his eyes fondly before taking the files from his grandfather. “I hope he offered you tea.”
“He did. Twice.”
“Marvelous. Won’t be a moment—I just have to make a note of something.”
As Jess looked on, Marcus Summers produced a pen from his shirtpocket and stooped over the desk. He was tall and slim with white hair and wild, thick sideburns, and the air of a septuagenarian undergraduate: interested, avid, energetic, but at the same time wise and intelligent. He was wearing pale denim jeans, sneakers, and, although it was summer, a knitted vest over his T-shirt.
When he’d finished scribbling, he handed the small square of paper to Jasper, then turned to Jess. “It’s a beautiful day,” he said. “I thought we’d go for a walk.”
They set off together toward the university campus, and Jess broke the ice by thanking him for making time to meet with her.
“Nonsense,” he replied. “I’m the one who should be thanking you for coming all this way. I’ve overseen more than my fair share of estates—your commitment to your grandmother’s affairs is admirable.”
“Actually,” Jess began, deciding that she didn’t have the time or the inclination to dissemble, “I have more than a passing interest in my grandmother’s family history. I think something was troubling her before she died, and receiving your letter was part of it. Finding out why—it’s personal for me.”
“It’s personal for me, too,” he said. “I’m glad you got in touch. I’ve waited a long time.”
Jess was momentarily confused. His letter to Nora had been recent; in it, Marcus Summers said that he was writing on behalf of a client; on the phone he’d mentioned being in possession of new information. “Your client... I thought you said...” She broke off, unable to make the pieces fit together.
“Jess,” said Marcus, coming to a stop. He scratched his head thoughtfully. “I think we’re both aware that I don’t have a client. Not in the usual sense. I contacted your grandmother because I know certain things about that night, Christmas Eve 1959, and the days that followed; things that I’ve carried with me for a long time. I sometimes think I’ve spent my whole life trying to balance the scales. My dadfelt similarly, but he’s not here to tell his story anymore. I know he’d reached out to Nora in the past—he wanted her to know the truth—and I thought it was worth another go.”
Jess was aware of being at a juncture. Nora hadn’t wanted her to know about Halcyon; she’d chosen not to hear what Marcus and his father had to say. But it was no longer Nora’s decision to make. “You said that Thea Turner wasn’t taken by dogs?” Jess prompted.
“I said she wasn’t taken by dogsthat day.” He gave a slight smile, almost of apology. “Let me explain.”
And as he launched into his father’s story, Jess knew she wasn’t going to be making it back up to the Hills that morning.
29
Adelaide Hills
December 24, 1959
From the dark wet street, the house looked warm and welcoming, a beacon of tranquility in a sea of trouble, but as soon as Percy stepped inside, he could feel that something was amiss. It was too quiet. He knew the sounds of his own house; it was a place of noise and movement, atoms in constant motion, swirling currents of energy. Tonight, everything was in a state of suspension. It was as if thisplace,the only home he’d ever known, sensed that he was steeling himself to deliver Meg the terrible news of what he’d found.
A single light was on in the kitchen, and Percy walked toward it.
The first thing he saw when he entered the room was the glass of sherry on the table, and then his wife sitting very still behind it. He realized immediately that she already knew what had happened. But of course she did: it was inconceivable that such a thing could occur in Tambilla, that a family could die on Christmas Eve, that a baby could go missing, that a search party could be organized and dispatched, without word reaching Meg. He wondered whether she knew the role he’d played.
“Perce,” she said, when she saw him. “Oh, Perce.” She stood and came to him, studying his face as he let his kit bag fall to the ground. “Was it awful?”
He felt a dark wave of the day’s horror rising to overwhelm him. He didn’t want to have to talk about what he’d seen, he realized, not now, not yet. Not with Meg. A picture came to him of the lost wren. “I’ve been at the police station,” he said instead.
She nodded quickly. “I spoke with Lucy. The boys are out. They’re with the search.”
He should have known they’d be helping; Percy felt a surge of pride. “Kurt?”
“Devastated.”
“I’ll talk to him when he gets back.”
“The police?” she asked. “What did they say? What do they think?”
He gave her a summary of the interview, leaving out any mention of the questions about their son. She looked distressed already; Percy saw no reason to concern her further. He was worried enough for both of them.
When he finished, Meg was silent for a moment. At last she said, “Can I fetch you something? Cup of tea? A bite to eat?”
