“Do you think Tracy is convinced by me?” Sid would have told me not to ask. Trevelyan and my mother would have said the same. Clearly, Diana Cornish was still trying to persuade me to join the Institute. But my anxiety was always there like a tiny stone in my shoe, irritating me and demanding my attention.
“You have nothing to worry about. Enjoy the rest of your evening, and safe travels in the morning. All we ask is that if you want to accept our offer, you let us know by end of day tomorrow.”
I messaged Sid asking where he was, and he came down to meet me in the cozy hotel bar. We had a nightcap beside the crackling fire. He told me about his evening. He’d had a nice time, was a little buzzed. “Paul’s nice. Reserved, but a good bloke. I could see myself going for a pint with him, and he’s offered to take me bouldering if we move here.”
I loved that Sid was already imagining himself here, because I was, too. I told him what I could about my evening, which wasn’t a lot, because of the NDA, but he got the gist.
“Will you accept the offer?” he asked.
“Only if you want this, too.”
“I could make it work.” He smiled and held up his glass, and I chinked mine against it.
“Are you sure?”
He nodded. “That’s a tight deadline she’s given you to respond. They must be keen. Will you tell her tonight?”
“I think we should sleep on it,” I said, because he’d had a few to drink and I didn’t want either of us to rush into a decision, but in my gut, I already knew what my answer would be.
Clio
Clio attended Lillian’s cremation on a bleak day in Essex. It seemed Lillian had almost no family; her job had been her life. Clio thought of the friend who Lillian said she’d lost and felt her absence. She wept silently in the second row of the nondenominational chapel during the service and fought to hold back tears the next day back at work, when she couldn’t concentrate because her mind’s eye kept replaying the moments after Lillian’s death in excruciatingly vivid detail. The rain, the blood, the absence of life in Lillian’s open eyes. Her boss offered her a week of compassionate leave, and she took it, but once she got home, she had no idea what to do with herself.
The intensity of her grief was surprising and oppressive. She felt as if the walls of her flat were closing in around her. The first night of her leave she lay in bed, so physically tense her muscles ached and emotionally fretful, unable to sleep. She spent hours watching shadows move across the ceiling as cars drove by, their headlamps sweeping the room.
By morning, she decided the only way to get through this was to do the thing that Lillian had asked her to. From her work account, she sent an email full of questions to the Scottish police and got a quick reply.
To: Clio Spicer
From: Rory Thomson
Re: Eleanor Bruton
Date: April 8, 2024
Hi Clio,
Happy to help. Eleanor Bruton’s death was an open-and-shut case for us.
I’m attaching the official on-scene report, autopsy report, and a transcript of an interview with Simon Bruton, the deceased’s son.
If you don’t fancy plowing through them, main points are as follows:
Mrs. Bruton’s body was found by a local fisherman who was collecting his lobster pots. Her swimsuit had snagged on some rocks in Lythe Bay, an inlet on the coast of the mainland. She was face down in the water and in a bad way. We don’t know how long the body had been there, but the weather had been poor for at least four days, with big swells and high tides.
There was trauma to her head consistent with falling onto the rocks or being washed up hard against them and abrasions on her face, hands, and feet that were consistent with the body having traveled in the water postmortem. The fisherman pulled her body onto his boat and took her to shore. The body was bloated, and the autopsy report noted that her skin had marked wrinkling and had sloughed in places, suggesting prolonged immersion. The report also confirms that there was water and debris in her lungs, so we know she was alive when she went into the sea.
After a search of the east side of the island we discovered a towel, and a dry robe had been left tucked into some rocks in a small cove closer to the cottage. A thermos of tea was with it.A search of Mrs. Bruton’s cottage found it to be immaculate. There was a pan of soup on the hob and some dough had been left to rise on the kitchen sideboard. We found sprigs of heather in a jug on the table. There was no note.
Ian Robertson, who had been bringing her groceries to the island, said that he’d once seen Mrs. Bruton swimming and once spotted her wearing the dry robe, too. She’d been on the island for eight months.
We spoke to Mrs. Bruton’s son, Simon. He asserted that she wasn’t the type to consider taking her own life, although he also mentioned that he and his wife thought it was out of character that she’d moved to Scotland. Between us, I’d have traveled some distance to avoid him if I were her. I got the feeling that most of his objection to her moving had been the loss of free childcare, so we took that with a pinch of salt.
The coroner ruled it an accident, and I think she was right. The likelihood is that Mrs. Bruton slipped off the rocks when entering the water. She wasn’t the first to drown there and she won’t be the last. Loch Moidart is connected to the sea and is tidal. The currents are strong, and the water is very cold.
Please be in touch if there’s anything else you need from us.
Rory
