Eventually Rachel emerges from the bunker, dustingthe shoulders of her coat. ‘It’s so strange,’ she says. ‘All those magpies with the little trinkets attached. They’re obviously clues. And is the sculpture supposed to be of Dorothea?’
‘I assume so, yes.’
Rachel keeps watch this time while I go back down. I try to imagine Dorothea coming here, working on this sculpture in secret. ‘What are you trying to tell me?’ I whisper into the damp air as I study the sculpture again, hoping that, this time, something makes sense to me, but nothing does. I always feel this way when studying a piece of art, totally baffled as to its meaning. The only thing I can work out is that the sculpture is of Dorothea, and the red paint on her hand must signify blood.
Is she trying to say she had blood on her hands? Yet only one hand is painted red. Is that significant?
And then an item on one of the magpies catches my eye. It’s the lighter. A miniature version of the one I’m holding in my hand.
I run back up the steps to tell Rachel.
She’s standing between the dogs, looking a little freaked out, and I can see why. A magpie is perched on a branch staring at her, head cocked to one side. When it sees me it flies away.
I hand her the lighter and explain about the tiny version I’d found on the sculpture.
We both examine it properly for the first time.
It looks as though it could be silver, or silver plated at least, but most of it is tarnished.
‘Look, there are initials,’ she says in a low voice, rubbing at the front of it with her finger.
‘RF.’
‘We need to find out who RF is,’ she says, her eyes widening. ‘Because those initials could belong to her killer.’
19
Dorothea
Four Years Before
Rosemary walked into the dining room carrying a silver tray with a turkey so huge that her slender arms in her sleeveless dress looked like they were about to buckle under its weight.
‘Everyone, please sit,’ she announced, and Dorothea was forced to suppress a sigh. Oh, how she hated Christmas Day. So full of expectation that it was always a disappointment. She often wondered if it was only a disappointment for her because she didn’t have any family to share the day with. These three women were her family, she supposed. Her chosen family. She’d known them the longest, after all. And, like family, they in turns delighted and irritated her.
There was Annette Baker-Hume in her uniform of tweed and pearls, her hair in a sleek chignon, sitting at the head of the table as always even though this wasn’t even her house, with her grandson, Warren, next to her.Aged seventeen, he had been living with Annette for the past year after falling out with his parents. Annette was long widowed although she still carried her husband’s surname along with her trauma.
And then, next to Annette was Maisie. Lovely Maisie Hill, Dorothea’s favourite. A sweet-faced woman who, despite being in her late sixties, had smooth, rosy cheeks and a childlike glint in her marble-blue eyes and who was rarely found without her crocheting. Dorothea and Annette had met Maisie back in the late 1970s when she came to one of their art therapy classes. She had bonded with Annette because she too had an ex-husband who was in prison. (Annette’s husband had been sentenced to fraud a few years before Dorothea had met her. He later hung himself in jail.) It was only later they discovered Maisie’s husband had been sent down for almost killing Maisie. Fifteen years ago she had met a lovely, kind man called Aiden with big shaggy eyebrows and a moustache to match. He sat opposite her and every now and then would reach across the table to pat Maisie’s hand. And then there was Rosemary Farrington. Posh Rosemary, as Dorothea used to secretly refer to her. She was now Lady something or other, ninety-eighth in line to the throne. Rosemary had started off as Annette’s friend but had become close with all of them when they realized their philosophy on life aligned. For years it was just the four of them, meeting every week in Annette’s outbuilding which she’d set up as an art studio. And after Dorothea found some success as an artist, they used her nameto expand the group, guided by Annette, and started offering classes in the West Country. Then, in the late 1990s, Rosemary’s father died and, as his only child, she inherited his wealth, some of which she ploughed into making the art therapy business a franchise. This meant they could all step away from it, apart from Annette, who was unwilling to relinquish control completely. It was like a child they had all spawned together which had grown and evolved into an adult they no longer recognized. But those first few years, when all they’d had was each other, they’d taken their hurt and despair and trauma and turned it into something good, something worthwhile.
Now Rosemary had turned her hand to helping reform young offenders, offering them board and shelter in her huge house. Her most recent, Peter, who wasn’t much older than Warren, came into the room with a bowl of roast potatoes that he’d cooked himself and set them down in the middle of the table. He grinned at Warren as he took a seat beside him. Dorothea noticed Annette’s smile disappear for a few seconds, worry flashing in her eyes. Annette didn’t really approve of Rosemary’s new venture and Dorothea could tell her friend was concerned that Peter was a bad influence.
‘Merry Christmas, you lovely lot,’ announced Rosemary, placing the turkey onto the table. ‘Warren, would you mind doing the honours?’
Warren blushed self-consciously but seemed more than capable of using a knife – Annette once toldDorothea that her son and his wife owned a farm – and expertly carved the turkey.
Dorothea wished that they could, at least once, hold Christmas lunch at her place, not always at Rosemary’s. Annette said it was because Rosemary was lonely living in Greywalls Hall with just herself and whatever new lost soul she was currently helping. Although Peter had stayed around longer than most. Dorothea thought he was a nice lad, a bit awkward and not great at making conversation, but he seemed fond of Rosemary and helped her bring the logs in for the fire and did odd jobs around the house. Rosemary had never married or had children. She’d been engaged once, in the early 1970s, but had been left devastated after discovering he was a con artist with a wife and was using Rosemary for her money.
Greywalls was Tudor in appearance with its vast, draughty rooms and high ceilings. It was on the outskirts of Bristol, near Bitton, and was a schlep to get to. But Dorothea knew all about being lonely so she always ended up agreeing. And it would be like old times in the evening, drinking around the open fire and reminiscing about the past. That was the best part of Christmas Day for Dorothea, the last few hours before bed.
But Dorothea also wondered if there was a darker reason for Rosemary always insisting that they have Christmas here. An excuse to force them all together in the very place where Ruth had spent her last few hours. A painful reminder of how they were unable to save her.
That had been their speciality, after all. Helping vulnerable women through art. Looking for the small, tell-tale signs of abuse. Dorothea had prided herself on seeing those signs in Ruth when she had employed her as her cleaner, but even so, they had failed her.
After they’d eaten, Annette and Dorothea offered to clear the plates. The others were all in the drawing room, Warren setting up the Monopoly board, and, not for the first time, Dorothea felt sorry for the teenager surrounded by a load of oldies and an ex-con. Not that he seemed to mind.
As Annette stood at the sink she started to sneeze.
‘Cold?’ asked Dorothea as she scraped the unfinished food into the bin.
