‘You said Dorothea wrote me letters?’
‘Hundreds of them. But it seems she never sent them.’
Francis stares over Roddy’s shoulder with a look of bewilderment. After a moment he says, ‘I need the whole story, if you have time. Forgive my manners. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Whisky? Never too early at Christmas time, is it?’
‘Er, tea would be lovely.’ Roddy feels supremely underdressed in his old jeans in the house of this dazzling man.
‘Tea, then. Wonderful.’ They stand at the same time, and Roddy feels a little sick again. His face heats up. ‘Thank you … Lord Fitzhenry,’ he mumbles.
‘Francis.Please. Though my friends call me Frankie. I answer to both.’ The man continues to stare, then gives a tiny shake of his head. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll just pop the kettle on.’
Francis disappears and Roddy lets his eyes roam the beautiful room. There are piles of coffee table books, oil paintings of landscapes and modern paintings of colourful abstract forms. A portrait of a woman and a child in a deep ornate gilt frame hangs beside the fireplace. An unusual mannequin stands in the corner and seems to be formed from a coloured resin. A swathe of red silk fabric hangs over one of her shoulders.
Out the rear window, a kitchen garden is bordered by rows of lavender bushes still with dead heads, so that the effect is a once magnificent garden in slight decay. Roddy sits and rearranges several cushions. The sofa feels like it is trying to swallow him and he reminds himself that it is possible Francis Fitzhenry wants Phyllida gaoled for the murder of his father. He should be on guard, but nothing about being in the room feels threatening.
Francis emerges from the hallway. ‘Here we are.’ He removes the teapot from the tray and begins to set out the cups and saucers. ‘I’ll be mother, shall I?’
Roddy picks up his teacup, noting the finely crafted porcelain. Was it Samuel Alcock? The rich colours and the gothic-inspired motifs make him think so, but he can hardly check for a marking. He moves his eyes to the teapot. Angular handle, elongated spout, finial on the lid.Good lord, it was an 1850s complete set. He feels his heart give another little leap.
Francis smiles. ‘All right?’
‘Yes, thanks. I was just admiring your tea set.’ Roddy’s eyes rest on Francis’s hand as he sets down the exquisite milk jug. He has long fingers. Smooth artist’s hands.
‘Now,’ says Francis, giving Roddy a look that conveys curiosity, gratitude and a desperate longing for information, all at once, ‘tell me everything. Really, I want to know everything. In your own time. I’m so glad you’re here.’
Roddy has the feeling of being swept into an embrace. He hardly knows where to start. ‘I’m convinced my friend is your Dorothea, but, as I said, I don’t want to get her into trouble. She’s a wonderful lady. She could never harm anyone, let alone … murder someone.’ He hesitates, because the man’s gaze is so intense. ‘I mean, I know she’s accused of killing your father and I am very sorry to accost you like this without notice, knowing so little about it all, but’—he gives a deep sigh—‘it seems to me the police have got the wrong end of the stick.’
Francis sighs. ‘I know, my friend,’ he says sadly. ‘I know that better than anyone. Dorothea didn’t do it.’
Roddy stares at him, uncomprehending. ‘But … if she didn’t do it, why did she run?’
54
DOROTHEA
1975, CAMBRIDGESHIRE, ENGLAND
The hand holding the shotgun dropped to the boy’s side. They stared. Edward lay on the ground, moaning in pain. His hand clutched his stomach. He lifted his fingers, stared at blood seeping through the fabric of his coat. ‘Help. Get help,’ he muttered.
Cricket took off, running towards the house. Francis began to tremble. Dorothea felt detached; a sense of unreality washing over her, so that when she removed the shotgun from the boy’s hand, she felt an odd certainty about what she must do.Francis.She moved in front of him:Do not let whatever was happening behind her distract her from protecting the boy.She had caused something terrible—unwittingly so, but nevertheless, the spectacle lay there for the world to see—and Francis was suffering. He was hers to protect, so she must protect him. ‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said, pressing his face to her breast.
‘Dorothea, help,’ came Edward’s strangled cry.
Go away, she thought. The boy was shivering. ‘Shhh,’ she murmured.
Cricket would be fetching help. Dorothea’s only job was to keep Francis’s eyes away from his father. But as a minute ticked by, then two, the boy continued to shiver and nobody arrived to help. She knew she must take him inside and deal with the shock.
‘Dorothea?’ A louder, harsher voice now. Broad, brisk. Mrs Wilson.Edith.Dorothea held tight to Francis, not looking behind, waiting for Edith. The housekeeper was here. Edith kept house. Kept things in order. Ofcourseshe was here.
But Edith’s words were panicked. ‘What happened?’
The question seemed out of place. As if Edith wasn’t ready, which was so unlike her; Edith was always ready.
‘How long will the ambulance be?’ asked Dorothea. Her voice was calm. She could do voices very well: gentle, excited, spit-spot. Calm was her best: saved for Francis when the bee had stung him; when Edward smacked his son’s head for lazy table manners; when angry men had come to the door of Dorothea’s childhood home and demanded to see Daddy—she had always used her calm voice, moments after tapping the end of the broomstick on the floor above the basement to warn Daddy.I’m sorry, but my father has gone out. Would you like me to wake my mother?Calm. Ever so calm.
‘What happened, Dorothea?’ asked Edith. ‘Cricket looks like she’s seen a ghost. I couldn’t get much out of her.’ The housekeeper was staring at the pale, gruesome form of Edward on the ground.
‘An accident,’ said Dorothea. ‘How long will the ambulance be?’
