The Woman Who Walked Into the Sea (25 page)

Anna pulled at her mother’s sleeve.

‘Can’t I stay here, with Izzy?’

‘If Cal lets you,’ Violet replied as a small, blue car appeared at the road end drawing her attention way. ‘Come on,’ she said to Hilary, ‘I’ll introduce you.’ They started across the sand and Mrs Anderson appeared at the open driver’s door. She was barely taller than the car. ‘You must think me very rude,’ Violet said when they were close, ‘running out of your house like that, leaving you with all the clearing up after all the trouble you’d gone to.’

Mrs Anderson shielded her eyes from the sun with one hand and held on to the door with the other, as if she needed the support. Violet thought how frail, how shrunken, how different Mrs Anderson looked.

‘I don’t at all. Not a bit of it,’ Mrs Anderson replied. ‘I should be apologising to you.’

‘Why?’

‘I should have realised the effect it would have . . . to hear that Duncan had your mother’s possessions. It was thoughtless of me.’

Mrs Anderson looked back over her shoulder in the direction of Boyd’s Farm. ‘Now this terrible thing and my own flesh and blood too. I don’t know what to say to you. It’s terrible, just terrible.’

Violet rubbed the older woman’s arm. ‘You’re not to blame.’

‘No,’ Mrs Anderson replied in the same troubled manner. ‘I suppose not, but still, I can’t help but feel responsible.’

Violet introduced Hilary and pointed out the children, telling Mrs Anderson which was which. ‘Just in case they come over,’ Violet warned Mrs Anderson, ‘Anna knows about her grandmother being dead, but not how she died, nor about the police search.’

‘Well, I won’t say anything.’ Mrs Anderson seemed to approve of Violet’s restraint. ‘Far better she doesn’t know the details,’ she said with the certainty of age. Although she was tactful enough to say ‘what lovely children’, Violet noticed Mrs Anderson’s eye remaining on Anna.

‘I just want her to enjoy the feeling of having a grandmother,’ Violet said, ‘of spending time on the beach where she loved to be.’

‘Well,’ Mrs Anderson said, ‘if there are things you have to do, the police and so on, leave them with me . . . or if the weather changes and they need a hot bath. It’s been too long since Gardener’s Cottage has heard the sound of children.’ As an afterthought, she asked, ‘Do small girls still like baking?’

‘They do,’ Violet replied.

The conversation moved on to Alexandra’s invitation to Brae, Violet asking Mrs Anderson’s advice on whether she should go. Hilary thought she should but Violet wasn’t sure. ‘Of course you must go,’ Mrs Anderson replied, ‘and let me have the children. Then Hilary can accompany you.’

Later, as she was showing Hilary her father’s gravestone, Violet said she was pleased the girls would be going to Mrs Anderson because she’d seemed somehow diminished. Duncan’s death and the police searching her old home must have hit her hard. Having Anna and Izzy would be good for her.

Alexandra Hamilton wore a silk print dress belted at the waist and a style of shoe that Anna liked to call ‘properly’. They were black patent with heels which elevated Alexandra above her visitors. ‘Oh, there you are,’ she said, her manner as overbearing as her height. ‘I suppose you’d better follow me.’ Leaving Violet to close the back door, she went briskly from the kitchen to the front of the house; one pantry opening on to another followed by a wood-panelled corridor. Violet and Hilary lagged half a dozen steps behind, their different progress marked by the noise of footwear on polished floors; the squeak of trainers from Violet and Hilary, the emphatic tattoo of Alexandra’s heels.

‘Queen Bitch,’ Hilary whispered to Violet before they found themselves in a large wood-panelled hall with twin leather sofas either side of a fireplace. Above it hung the portrait of a young woman, her blonde hair cascading artfully on to one shoulder, her face tilted upwards and glowing with the hungry expectation of a charmed life. ‘A present from William Ritchie, my father,’ Alexandra said, watching for Violet’s reaction. ‘He commissioned it for my 21st birthday.’ Alexandra’s fingers played with the string of pearls at her neck. The young woman in the painting wore them too. Alexandra saw Violet make the connection. ‘Another present,’ she simpered, ‘for my 18th.’

Hilary mouthed at Violet, ‘
Whose
father?’ as Alexandra set off again, this time through an open door into what turned out to be the dining room. A man with wire-rimmed glasses and a crust of white hair sat at the far end of a long mahogany table around which were a dozen chairs with matching tapestry seats. ‘I’m sorry, Gordon, for abandoning you.’ Alexandra addressed him as if speaking to a crowd. ‘I had to go looking for them – they’d gone to the
back
door.’

He raised a sympathetic eye-brow at such odd behaviour.

‘This . . .’ Alexandra pulled a chair away from
the table for Violet, ‘is Miss Wells.’ She gave Hilary
a dismissive look. ‘And friend . . .’ She carried on to the
head of the table without pulling out another chair for
Hilary. ‘And this . . .’ She stopped beside Gordon and placed her
hand lightly on his shoulder, ‘is Mr Campbell.’

He inclined his head at Violet and Hilary before sliding a document across the table to Alexandra.

Violet watched it. ‘What’s going on? Who is he?’

‘Sit down please.’ Alexandra turned a page and studied it, like a schoolmistress checking up on the record of a pupil brought before her for a disciplinary misdemeanour.

‘No, not until I know what’s happening.’

A bored expression crossed Alexandra’s face. ‘Mr Campbell is a solicitor, and,’ she gave Violet a contemptuous look, ‘a very old family friend.’ She slapped her open hands on the table, indicating the start of proceedings. ‘Now, Miss Wells, don’t you think it’s time you did some listening? This might not be what you want to hear but my father died regretting his affair with Megan Bates.’ Alexandra lifted her nose, attempting to rise above a bad smell.

‘Excuse me,
whose
father?’ blurted Hilary.

The lawyer cleared his throat. ‘Who exactly
are
you?’

‘I’m Violet’s friend, Hilary Reston.’

‘Well, Miss Reston you may not realise this but Mrs Hamilton’s biological father abandoned her when she was four. So William Ritchie was really the only father she had, and Mrs Hamilton was the only daughter, the only
child
, he acknowledged.’ He allowed his left eyebrow to rise again. ‘Indeed,’ he glanced at Alexandra, ‘with Mr Ritchie’s encouragement and support she adopted his surname and she used it until her marriage to Matthew Hamilton.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ Hilary advised Violet before returning to glower at Mr Campbell. ‘Why are you being so horrible?’

Mr Campbell cleared his throat again in lawyerly affectation. ‘Because it is important that Miss Wells doesn’t harbour any illusions about what were and are the facts of Mr William Ritchie’s short-lived affair with Megan Bates.’ He drew back his lips to reveal worn-away, sharp little teeth and turned to examine Violet. ‘It is quite clear he did not love Miss Bates, nor by the end of the affair did he have any feelings for her or for her unborn child.’ His lips stretched again, as if attempting to demonstrate his sympathy for Violet’s predicament. ‘Indeed, given Miss Bates’s reputation there is no reason why he should have formed an attachment for the child since it was far from certain that it was his.’

‘Well, that’s easily resolved,’ Hilary snapped.

‘Not as easily as you or Miss Wells might think.’ Mr Campbell regarded Hilary over his glasses with a considered and concerned stare. ‘I assume you are referring to the possibility of a DNA procedure?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘That would require the disinterment of William Ritchie’s coffin.’ He paused and looked from Hilary to Violet. ‘I imagine you realise that, since no other sources of DNA would be available.’

‘I hadn’t thought about it, but yes,’ Hilary replied, glancing at Violet to check whether her friend was in agreement.

‘Well, if that is the course of action Miss Wells plans, it would have to be resolved in a court of law. My client, of course, would oppose any interference with her father’s grave.’ His eyebrow arched. ‘I’m sure you realise that going to court would be very expensive, especially for the losing side.’ He dropped his chin and stared over his glasses. ‘Even more so if there were appeals and the usual costly delays . . . costs that my clients can easily afford.’ He directed a pitying frown at Violet. ‘And that also applies should you decide to pursue an action for any of the property Mrs Hamilton inherited from her father.’

Violet frowned in return. ‘Is that why you think I’m here?’

‘Frankly,’ Mr Campbell said, ‘I have no idea why you are here, but in case it’s to try to enrich yourself at Mrs Hamilton’s expense . . .’ He stopped and referred to the document in front of him. ‘There are two issues to be resolved. The first is whether you are indeed Mr Ritchie’s daughter, which my client disputes. The second, and the issue of greater significance, is whether, had Mr Ritchie imagined himself to be the father, he would have made any provision for you in his will. Of course, if you
were
his child, under Scots law, you could well have a claim for a share of what we call his moveable property – furniture and so on – but again you would have to establish that claim in court with all the risk and expense that might involve.

‘In case of any confusion,’
he glanced now at Alexandra, ‘Mrs Hamilton thought you should
be made aware of her father’s, Mr Ritchie’s,
attitude towards Miss Bates. Before his death, he wrote a
letter to his wife, my client’s mother, expressing his
regret at the affair and the hurt it caused. He
is silent on the subject of Miss Bates’s child
but goes on to make specific reference to his paternal
love for my client.’ He indicated he was talking about
Alexandra Hamilton. ‘He refers to her as “our darling daughter”.’

He let his words have their effect before continuing. ‘The difficulty for you Miss Wells is this: if you were to pursue the legal route my client would give evidence that William Ritchie not only regretted his entanglement with Megan Bates but never accepted the child as his own.’ He managed to sound perplexed on Violet’s behalf. ‘As far as I am aware, there is no witness available to you with more intimate access to William Ritchie or knowledge of his feelings at that time than my client.’

‘Stop this – what are you saying?’ Hilary shouted. ‘Her mother has been murdered and the police are still looking for her body.’

‘None of which is my client’s concern.’ Mr Campbell coughed. ‘However, she is concerned at the disruptive effect of Miss Wells’s presence here on her family.’

‘Meaning what?’ Hilary asked.

‘Meaning that she is prepared to offer Miss Wells some small recompense.’ Mr Campbell searched for the appropriate word. ‘Shall we say for her … trouble?’ He smirked in satisfaction at his eventual choice.

‘What?’ Violet said.

‘My client,’ he indicated Alexandra again, ‘is prepared to offer you £1,000 in full and final settlement of any future claim you may bring on the basis of your unproven relationship to William Ritchie.’

He looked at Violet, as if inviting a question. ‘There are two conditions, that you agree to take no steps to establish his paternity, and that you agree to remove yourself from Poltown and to stay away.’

‘What,’ Hilary exclaimed, ‘for £1,000?’

‘Miss Wells would then return to the life she was leading a few days ago, before she’d heard of Mr William Ritchie, before she knew Poltown existed, ’ Mr Campbell said. Money for nothing, his eyebrow suggested.

Hilary and Violet exchanged glances.

‘I would advise you to consider it with care.’ Mr Campbell removed his glasses and his lips pulled back into a sneer. ‘When you consider the alternative. . . .’

The sentence was left hanging, along with the implication of unspecified consequences. ‘Of course,’ he added, ‘we will require a signature from you, Miss Wells, at the places marked.’

With that he slid a document across the table towards Violet. It had yellow tabs at the pages where Violet was expected to sign. ‘Your friend too, as the witness.’ A pen was lying on the top sheet. ‘Mrs Hamilton and I will be waiting outside should you have any questions.’

He picked up his briefcase and snapped it shut. ‘To avoid misunderstanding, there will be no repeat of this offer.’ He waited for Alexandra to rise and followed her from the room.

After the door closed they heard Alexandra’s heels striking against the wooden floor of the hall. Violet stretched across the table and tore the document in half and again into quarters. The pieces of paper fluttered from her hands. Taking the key to Orasaigh Cottage from her jeans’ pocket, she placed it among the fragments on the polished mahogany table.

‘I was wrong,’ Hilary said. ‘What an EMPRESS of a bitch.’ She hugged Violet. ‘Are you ok?’

‘I’m fine.’

Hilary surveyed the dining room with its gilt mirrors and a sideboard crowded with a menagerie of animals in silver. ‘I know what this is about,’ she said. ‘She’s showing off. That’s what she’s doing. Don’t you see? The house, the painting in the hall, the pearls, all this . . . she’s letting you see what she’s got, her inheritance, the ‘moveable property’. She’s daring you to take her on.’

Violet looked around the room too, wondering how she belonged here,
if
she belonged here, how these
possessions
had anything to do with her.

‘What are you going to do?’ Hilary asked.

‘Nothing.’ Violet moved towards the door. ‘Nothing at all.’

She waited for Hilary before turning the handle. In the hall Alexandra looked up and Mr Campbell studied Violet over the top of his glasses. ‘I presume,’ he said, ‘that you have been sensible.’ There was an unspoken ‘or else’.

‘I wish you’d stop making assumptions about me,’ Violet said.

‘Come on.’ Hilary pulled at her arm. ‘Let’s go.’

They went along the corridor to the kitchen and the back door. Outside in the yard, Hilary said, ‘Did you see the way they were looking at us?’ She glanced behind her, as if expecting to find Alexandra and the lawyer in pursuit. Violet walked on without speaking. As they skirted the walled garden on their way to pick up Anna and Izzy from Mrs Anderson, Hilary forced her to stop. ‘You weren’t supposed to do that. Were you?’

‘No,’ Violet said.

Izzy’s pink tongue darted in and out between her lips in concentration as she guided the knife through the layers of sponge cake. ‘That’s it,’ Mrs Anderson said. ‘Hard enough to cut but not so hard the chocolate and raspberry filling spills out.’

The knife hit the plate with a clunk.

‘Do the same again here.’ Mrs Anderson took the knife and scored the icing with the blade. ‘Now press down.’

The first slice was larger than the second and Violet said she ‘definitely’ wanted the big bit. Mrs Anderson put it on a plate and Anna delivered it by walking stiffly round the table and announcing: ‘your order’. She curtseyed and Violet kissed her on the top of her head eliciting an indignant protest: ‘Customers shouldn’t kiss the waitress’.

Mrs Anderson handed Anna another plate. ‘It looks amazing,’ Hilary said as Anna put it on the table in front of her without the curtsey. ‘Mm, perfect,’ she said, taking a bite.

Anna and Izzy grinned at each other and then in anticipation at Mrs Anderson who was cutting two more pieces. ‘Now girls,’ she said, ‘What about your mothers enjoying their cups of tea in peace?’ Handing a plate to each child, she asked Violet and Hilary whether they minded Anna and Izzy watching television next door. She’d promised they could, a reward for helping her to lay the table and clear up the dishes.

‘Of course not,’ Hilary said. Mrs Anderson herded the girls ahead of her. ‘Come on then.’ She pulled the kitchen door to. ‘Let’s see what’s on?’

In the sitting room, Anna and Izzy knelt on the rug, their cake in front of them. Mrs Anderson turned on the television, apologising for having so few channels. ‘That, that,’ Anna shouted as Mrs Anderson switched from one to the next.

That
was a wildlife programme about a mother monkey and her sick baby. ‘It’s going to die isn’t it?’ Izzy complained to Anna.

‘It can’t,’ Anna insisted. ‘I won’t let it.’

As soon as they were engrossed, Mrs Anderson remembered she had to shut the window in her bedroom. ‘Be sure now to tell me everything when I get back.’ The girls looked up before the monkey claimed their attention again and Mrs Anderson went from the room across the hall. She lingered at the foot of the stairs, close enough to the kitchen door to hear Violet and Hilary.

Hilary was saying, ‘It’s meaningless, don’t you see?’

Violet replied, ‘I told you, it doesn’t matter.’ Mrs Anderson heard the hurt in her voice.