‘If you say so,’ Tamar murmured. ‘Check his pupils; either pinpricks or huge dilation could mean drugs. Smell for alcohol,too, on his breath or skin. If you find either, call 999 – he could lash out. Is anyone there to help you?’
‘Seb and Nancy are usually nearby,’ Tabitha said.
Seb and Nancy Taylor worked in the abbey gardens four days a week. An active, practical pair in their fifties, they were steady presences – and, if needed, Seb was strong enough to restrain Gulliver.
‘Have their number handy,’ said Tamar, ‘but if Gulliver’s calm, coax him inside. Tea helps – the sipping slows the breath, steadies the body. What’s he doing now?’
Tabitha turned, Gulliver was hunched on her doorstep, rocking like a wounded child. Her chest tightened with pity, until he pushed his tangled hair out of his strangely blank eyes and she saw again the red smears of blood across his hands. She gave an involuntary shiver; there was a darkness to him, a sense of brooding loss.Was he going to lose control?she wondered and was about to step away from him and fetch Seb, when she saw his tears and she knew what to do.
‘He’s crying,’ whispered Tabitha. ‘Leave it with me, Tay.’
She clicked off the call and returned to Gulliver, who was leaning back, his head resting on the front door, his cheeks wet. As she approached, he wiped his face with the heels of his hands, his face a blank mask of sorrow and loss.
‘Sorry,’ he said croakily, as she approached. ‘I didn’t want to go up to the house covered in blood and scare Auntie Edie.’
‘What happened?’
‘Nosebleed,’ he said, holding up his encrusted hands, ‘and no handkerchief.’
‘Come inside and let’s get you cleaned up,’ said Tabitha. Then, unable to contain her fears, she asked, ‘Where’s Lucia?’
‘Tuscany,’ he replied, but his voice was low, defeated, soulless.
‘But you live in Rome…’
‘Not any more,’ he said, shuffling inside.
‘Go and sit in the living room,’ said Tabitha, before heading towards the kitchen.
The interior of Tadpole Cottage was an eclectic mix of modern and traditional, the two blending seamlessly. There were four square rooms downstairs of equal size, including the living room, where Gulliver sat on the pale green sofa, his head in his hands. Two contrasting armchairs were grouped around a low square table and a television on a glass and chrome stand. The walls were painted a pale yellow that shimmered in the setting sun, with matching curtains at the wide windows. The kitchen opened through an archway and was brand-new, with sleek sage green cupboards and tiles in a variety of heritage pastel shades. Another archway led through to the dining room, giving an open-plan feel.
‘The walls were too thick to remove,’ Molly had explained when she and Edith had first shown Tabitha around. ‘We thought archways were an elegant solution.’
‘The colours are traditional,’ Edith had said, ‘but Lucia assured us they were very fashionable.’
Tabitha, at this point unaware of Lucia’s place at Cerensthorpe Abbey, had thought she might have been the interior designer and had admired her taste.
Now, she pulled a deep ceramic basin from the cupboard and filled it with warm water, then scooped up two clean tea towels and a hand towel, carrying it all into the living room. She placed the bowl on the table beside Gulliver before speaking in a soft, calm voice.
‘I’m going to help you wash away the blood,’ she said, her voice gentle but firm.
Gulliver started, looking at her as though seeing her for the first time.
‘Tabitha,’ he exclaimed, then he looked down at his hands. Confusion flickered in his eyes and Tabitha felt a cold chill run down her spine as he murmured, ‘Lucia,’ before shaking his head. ‘I had a nosebleed,’ he repeated and looked at the bowl and towels, his eyes welled with tears. ‘You’re very kind, but I can wash my hands in the kitchen, you don’t need to pander to me.’
She considered him for a moment, then passed him the towels.
‘Use these,’ she said, ‘while I make a drink. Doctor’s orders. Apparently, sipping a hot drink helps to regulate your breathing and calm your mind.’
‘Dr Tamar, I presume?’ he said, but for the first time since his arrival, there was a hint of a smile in his voice, a flicker of the Gulliver she knew, before his face fell again.
‘Who else?’ she replied, forcing a smile.
Tabitha hurried away, wondering whether to call her sister back. Gulliver’s expression was one she recognised: the result of unexpected trauma and, despite her comments to Tamar, she remained concerned about Lucia’s well-being.
One step at a time, she thought, flicking on the kettle, but she could not understand why Lucia would be in Tuscany, when the couple lived and worked in the capital, nearly one hundred and eighty miles away.
In an attempt to calm her own jangling nerves, she focused on the ritual of making tea, the simple actions creating normality. Although he usually eschewed it, she put a heaped spoonful of sugar into Gulliver’s drink before carrying the two blue striped mugs into the living room and placing them on the square table.
