Anger flares in me. ‘I hadn’t told Phyllida because Iknowshe doesn’t like to talk about her family in England, so I figured it might bring up some unwelcome memories or something.’
Miriam gives a little grunt. ‘Well, that didn’t seem to be her major concern. She was more worried about the DNA of David.’ Miriam’s jaw tightens. She seems to be conflicted about sharing something with me.
‘What do you mean?’
‘She asked me if I was sure David was your father. Tried to tell me she was worried because you might need extra support if the DNA showed he wasn’t. She seemed very set on it. But … I got the feeling she was worried something else might come out too.’
‘How could Davidnotbe my father?’ My outrage feels less potent than it should. The letter Phyllida wrote to Francis has been gnawing at me.Could I be wrong? Will she look like Louis David?
Miriam purses her lips. ‘I suppose she knew I was in another relationship when I met David. She was being obtuse.’
I wait but Miriam doesn’t say more. ‘So … could I be this other man’s child?’
‘Not really.’
‘Notreally?’
‘I justknowyou’re David’s. I could feel it. When I insisted she was wrong, Phyllida went a bit strange.’
‘What sort of strange?’
‘Well, she wasn’t apologising as she should have done, for a start. And when I asked her not to peddle lies about your paternity, she went pale and started muttering something. She seemed so convinced your father wasn’t David, saying it had to be someone else. Ithadto be, otherwise …’ Miriam shakes her head, sips more wine as if she is still trying to make sense of the exchange. ‘She started muttering about what the DNA test might throw up if you reallyarerelated to David. She looked as if she was about to pass out.’
‘Why did you upset her like that, Mum? Why did you need to even bring up the DNA thing?’
‘I assumed you’d told her. You seem to tell her everything else.’
‘Well, I hadn’t.’ I regard Miriam for a moment. ‘How can you be so sure David’s my father if you were seeing someone else at that time?’
She bites her lip. ‘David and I were only together a few weeks before I found out I was pregnant with you.’ She is staring at the glass-fronted crystal cabinet in the corner of the room. ‘I would have known I was pregnant if it happened before I met him. I would have felt it.’
‘But it’s possible?’
She shrugs. ‘Technically, I suppose. In Phyllida’s head, anything’s possible.’
‘Was I born on my due date?’
Miriam sighs to signal I am being difficult by harping over such pesky details. ‘I didn’t know exactly when you were conceived because my periods were erratic. But I guess you were a couple of weeks early. That was the stress, though, of dealing with David’s death.’
It’s hard work listening to Miriam convince herself of the history she prefers. If she doesn’t know when her period was due and I arrived early, she cannot possiblyknowthat David was my father.
‘We talked about taking a trip together,’ Miriam says thoughtfully. ‘David and me. Maybe Bali or New Zealand. It was in the early weeks of our relationship. Before we knew he was sick.’ She sips more wine. ‘But he didn’t have a passport.’
‘So, he was born here?’ I am fairly certain from all the documents in Phyllida’s cellar that David/Louis was not born here, but I’m interested in how much Miriam knows.
‘He didn’t know where he was born. He hadn’t ever seen his birth certificate. And when he asked his mother for it, Phyllida … obfuscated. Told him some story that didn’t sound right to either of us.’ Miriam takes another large sip of wine. ‘He thought Phyllida had run away from something. Possibly a violent partner, because he never knew who his father was and she never talked about him.’
‘So, you think he might have been born in England, before she came out here?’
‘He thought so. He’d found an old British passport of Phyllida’s. He was in the photo, on her lap as a baby. At least he assumed the baby was him as the passport had his name on it alongside hers. But his mother had red hair in the photograph. She looked very different.’ She stops, thinks. ‘They hadjoint passports for mothers and children back then. Anyway, he asked her, but she refused to talk about it.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
Miriam seems deep in thought. ‘David said she had money. He’d seen bank accounts she kept hidden. A great deal of money. He thought … well, it sounds ridiculous now saying it out loud, but he thought she might have been involved in something illegal. She wouldn’t talk about the money or spend it, and he assumed she felt guilty about it for some reason. Perhaps because she stole it, or it was hush money.’
‘That’s insane. Phyllida’s the most honest person I ever met. And she doesn’t seem to have any money.’ Although Phyllida’s letter to me jumps into my head. The millions of dollars for a house she wants me to buy. The spreadsheets. I start to feel sick. If she’s in the frame for a fifty-year-old murder of a wealthy viscount, was she blackmailing him? Did she steal money from the estate? Or did she somehow blackmail Cricket Fitzhenry to get her hands on her baby? The possibilities, as unbelievable as they are, feel real and nauseating. ‘Why are you telling me this anyway?’
‘Phyllida is not the saint you think she is. Whatever is in that letter she left you when she suddenly had this so-called “stroke” …’ Miriam raises her fingers, putting quote marks around the word. ‘Well, it’s probably an effort at manipulation. My money is on an overdose. She either didn’t want to be around anymore or she wants attention. And why is that do you think? Is it because she’s worried she’ll lose her hold over you, now that you’ve got this DNA information coming and you’ll find out secrets from her and David’s family?’
