She moves closer and presses her glasses further up her nose. ‘The light isn’t very good in here. How Dot managed to work in here is beyond me.’
‘I think she used a head torch. One was left on the bench over there.’
She doesn’t say anything but goes to her handbag and gets out her phone. ‘This will have to do.’ She sweeps the torch over the brooch. ‘No, I don’t recognize it. But these pearls …’ She touches the necklace at her throat. ‘Is this about me? And the crochet butterfly is Maisie’s. Dear Maisie. She went through a phase of making them. And the lighter …’
‘Belonged to Bobby, didn’t it? Her ex-husband.’
She spins around to face me. ‘How do you know about him?’
‘It was in the biography.’
‘You’ve read it?’
I explain about the proof.
She frowns. ‘Right. Well, I told you about the postcard Dot found, didn’t I?’
‘Yes, who do you think left it? The author?’
She rolls back on her stout heels. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. Dotty hated the fact that man was prowling around,’ she says with feeling. She turns to the miniature Christmas card on the first magpie and slowly prises it open. ‘There’s writing in here. It’s too small for me to read, even with my glasses on.’
I move forward to take a look, surprised that the card opened. I hadn’t thought to look before.
‘Oh yes. It says … “To Rosemary, Hope you’re keeping well. Bobby”.’
Her face drains of colour. ‘That would be impossible.’
‘Why? The lighter was found in the woods. Could Bobby have dropped it there? Could he have come back to hurt Dorothea?’
Annette moves forward and gently strokes one of the sculpture’s hands. The one covered in red paint.
‘It’s a confession. Oh, Dot.’
A flame of heat rises up my throat. ‘Confessing to what?’
‘Something she didn’t want the world to know, but for some reason she wanted you to know it. You need to understand, Dorothea was like a sister to me. To Maisie and Rosemary too. We’d been through so much together, the four of us. We would have done anything to protect her.’
I feel like I’ve been doused in cold water. ‘Protect her from Bobby? Because he’s come back?’
‘No, my dear, he hasn’t come back. That’s why he couldn’t have sent this Christmas card to Rosemary, unless he sent it before July 1976.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s dead. Buried up on Magpie Hill.’
44
Dorothy
Forty-Eight and a Half Years Before
Ripples of panic flooded through Dorothy, spreading to every nerve ending in her body. She wanted to scream and rage and cry, but all she could do was stare down in disbelief at the body at her feet. And then the shaking began, uncontrollably, so that she had no choice but to sink to her knees on the carpet next to him in the darkening front room.
‘Dotty, love, you need to hold it together,’ said Annette gently from where she stood beside her. She placed her hand on Dorothy’s shoulder as if anchoring her to the room. ‘We need to figure out what to do.’
Dorothy’s hands flew to her mouth. ‘Is he dead? Is he actually dead?’
‘Yes, my love. I’m afraid so.’
