Juniper thought at first she’d misheard; she glanced at Meredith and realized that the child was completely serious.
“I mean, there are buses, too, but I think the train would be faster. A smoother ride, as well.”
Juniper couldn’t help it; she started to laugh, a great hulking laugh that rose up from very, very deep within her.
Meredith smiled uncertainly and Juniper gave her an enormous hug. “Oh, Merry,” she said, “did you know you’re really, truly, and utterly perfect?”
Meredith beamed and the two lay back against the roof tiles, watching as the afternoon stretched its film across the sky.
“Tell me a story, Merry.”
“What sort of story?”
“Tell me more about your London.”
THELETTINGPAGES
1992
DADwas waiting when I got in from visiting Theo Cavill. The front door hadn’t even latched behind me when the bell tinkled from his room. I went straight up and found him propped against his pillows, holding the cup and saucer Mum had brought him after dinner and feigning surprise. “Oh, Edie,” he said, glancing at the wall clock, “I wasn’t expecting you. Time quite got away from me.”
A very unlikely assertion. My copy of theMud Manwas lying facedown on the blanket beside him and the spiral notepad he had taken to calling his “casebook” was propped against his knees. The whole scene smacked of an afternoon spent musing on theMud Man’s mysteries, not least the way he was hungrily surveying the printouts peeping from the top of my tote. Although I can’t say why, the devil entered into me at that moment and I yawned widely, patting my mouth and making my way slowly to the armchair on the other side of his bed. I smiled when I was comfy and finally he could stand it no longer. “I don’t suppose you had any luck at the library? Old kidnappings at Milderhurst Castle?”
“Oh,” I said. “Of course. I quite forgot.” I took the file from my bag and sorted through the pages, presenting the kidnap articles for his keen perusal.
He skimmed them, one after the other, with an eagerness that made me feel cruel for having made him wait. The doctors had talked to us more about the risk of depression for cardiac patients, especially in a man like my dad, who was accustomed to being busy and important and was already on shaky ground dealing with his recent retirement. If he saw a future for himself as a literary sleuth, I wasn’t going to be the one to stop him. Never mind that theMud Manwas the first book he’d read in roughly forty years. Besides, it seemed to me a far better purpose in life than the endless mending of household items that weren’t broken to begin with. I resolved to make more of an effort. “Anything pertinent, Dad?”
His fervid expression, I noticed, had begun to droop. “None of these is about Milderhurst.”
“I’m afraid not. Not directly anyway.”
“But I was sure there’d be something.”
“Sorry, Dad. It was the best I could do.”
He grimaced bravely. “Never mind, not your fault, Edie, and we mustn’t let ourselves become discouraged. We just need to think laterally.” He knocked his pen against his chin then pointed it at me. “I’ve been going over the book all afternoon, and I’m positive it’s something to do with the moat. It has to be. It says in your book about Milderhurst that Raymond Blythe had the moat filled in just before he wrote theMud Man.”
I nodded with all the conviction I could muster and decided against reminding him of Muriel Blythe’s death and Raymond’s subsequent show of grief.
“Well, there you are then,” he said brightly. “It must mean something. And the child in the window, stolen while her parents slept? It’s all in there, I just need to make the right connection.”
He turned his attention back to the articles, reading them slowly and carefully jotting notes in a quick, stabbing hand. I tried to concentrate, but it was difficult when a real mystery was preying on my mind. Eventually I fell to staring through the window at the dusky evening light; the crescent moon was high in the purple sky and thin sheets of cloud drifted across its face. My thoughts were with Theo and the brother who’d disappeared into thin air fifty years ago when he failed to arrive at Milderhurst Castle. I’d gone searching for Thomas Cavill in the hope I might find something that would help me better understand Juniper’s madness, and although that hadn’t happened, my meeting with Theo had certainly changed the way I thought of Tom. Not a cheat at all, but a fellow, if his brother was correct, who had been much maligned. Certainly by me.
“You’re not listening.”
I glanced back from the window, blinked: Dad was watching me reproachfully over the top of his reading glasses. “I’ve been outlining a very sensible theory, Edie, and you haven’t heard a word.”
“Yes, I have. Moats, babies …” I winced, took a crack. “Boats?”
He huffed indignantly. “You’re as bad as your mother. The two of you are downright distracted these days.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dad. Here.” I leaned my elbows on my knees and waited. “Look, I’m all ears. Lay the theory on me.”
His chagrin was no match for his enthusiasm and he proceeded to do so at a skip. “It’s this report here that’s got me thinking. An unsolved kidnapping of a young lad from his bedroom in a manor house near Milderhurst. The window was left wide open, even though the nurse insisted she checked it when the children went to sleep, and there were marks on the ground that seemed to indicate a stepladder. It was 1872, so Raymond would’ve been six years old. Old enough for the whole event to have left quite an impression, don’t you think?”
It was possible, I supposed. It wasn’timpossible. “Definitely, Dad. That sounds very likely.”
“The real clincher is that the boy’s body was found after an extensive search”—he grinned, proud of himself and stretching the suspense—“at the bottom of the muddy estate lake.” His eyes scanned mine, his smile faltered. “What is it? Why do you look like that?”
