The Girl in the Picture Page 25

  Fatigue overwhelmed me once more and – for the first time surprisingly – a feeling of hopelessness. I was very weak and feared Father would not find me in time. I curled up in the corner of the room and slept.

  I woke a few hours later but found myself not rejuvenated. Too weary to rise, I simply adjusted my piles of clothes, then I slept once more.

  Later, when daylight filled the room, I woke again. This time I had enough energy to take a paintbrush in my trembling hand. Sitting on the floor – I still found I couldn’t stand – I wrote Violet Hargreaves in shaky script on the wall above the useless panel – opposite to the ‘Mariana’.

  Worn out from the effort I leaned my forehead on the cool brick for a moment and found I’d slept once more – just as I was. This time when I woke I lifted my brush and wrote Edwin. I couldn’t think of the words to explain what he’d done so instead I scored out his name. Then I wrote Frances, and finally, the word sorry.

  Still holding the brush, I crawled back across the floor to the nest I’d made myself from my clothes. I was so tired now. I lay down and curled up. My head ached and my eyes, though they were closed, burned.

  And then, suddenly, the pain was gone. I felt arms around me and smelled a familiar smell – a fragrance I’d not smelled for many years.

  ‘Mama,’ I said. My mother kissed me, and stroked my hair like she’d done when I was small.

  ‘Hush, my darling,’ she said. ‘Hush. You are safe now. Sleep.’

  I was filled with joy. To think I had been waiting for Father and it was Mama who had come. I tried to see my mother, but she was surrounded by a blinding light.

  ‘Hush,’ Mama said again. ‘Sleep now.’

  And I slept.

  Chapter 61

  Present day

  Ella

  I was at a loss. All my efforts to track Violet down had come to nothing. She wasn’t in Scotland, and she hadn’t stolen Frances Forrest’s identity. I was beginning to think she’d drowned after all and I’d even spent one whole afternoon staring at incomprehensible tidal patterns, trying to work out where a body that fell from our cliffs would wash up. It was impossible.

  And yet, I couldn’t shake off the feeling that I was meant to write this story. My Tessa mystery was with my editor but I knew deep down that it wasn’t very good and how could it be, when I’d barely paid it any attention at all?

  As autumn became winter and the weather worsened, I tried really hard to move on from my Cliff House Mystery, but it didn’t work. Even Ben and I making the decision to put our house in London on the market and make our landlord a ridiculously small but eagerly accepted offer on our house in Sussex didn’t distract me.

  ‘I can’t believe he didn’t want more money for it,’ I told Priya one day in November. I was visiting her at home – tomorrow she was going into hospital to have the twins and I was supposed to be helping her prepare. Instead we were sitting on the sofa, eating the chocolates out of one of the Advent calendars I’d bought for the boys.

  ‘He said it had been a millstone round his neck, he’d had trouble renting it out for years, and we would be doing him a favour.’

  ‘His loss,’ Priya said, popping out the chocolate from door number 15. ‘He’ll be sorry when you do up that bathroom and lose the peach toilet.’

  ‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘I’ve grown to like it.’

  Priya gave me a disdainful look. ‘Don’t make jokes,’ she said. ‘I’m not in the mood to be funny.’

  ‘Nervous about tomorrow?’

  ‘Terrified,’ she said. ‘Tell me something to take my mind off the fact that these babies are coming out in a few hours’ time.’

  ‘I’ve been searching for information about unidentified bodies washed up on Sussex beaches,’ I told her.

  She frowned. ‘Violet?’ she said. ‘Still?’

  ‘I have to find her, Priya,’ I said.

  ‘Ella,’ she said, in a world-weary tone. ‘I’ve had a lot of cases that haven’t been resolved the way I wanted them to be. I’ve seen people walk free who were definitely guilty. I’ve seen bereaved people never find out what happened to their loved ones. If you don’t move on it can eat you up inside.’

  ‘I can’t forget about her,’ I said.

  ‘I know you feel a connection with her, and that’s understandable,’ Priya said. ‘But her father spent his whole life searching and never found her. Maybe your search is just as fruitless.’

  I leant my head back against the sofa and gestured for her to pass me the advent calendar. ‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘I know you’re right. I just can’t give up on her.’

  Priya made an ‘ooph’ sound and cradled her bump as one of the babies kicked her. I put my hand on her stomach and grinned as I felt the wriggling inside.

  ‘You’re a writer, though,’ Priya said. ‘Why don’t you write your own ending for Violet?’

  ‘Make it up, you mean?’

  ‘Why not? If you’re never going to find out what happened to her, and you can’t settle without knowing, why not create something?’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said, not convinced.

  ‘You can’t carry on like this,’ Priya said. ‘Searching and searching. It’s going to start messing with your head – and your family life.’

  I thought about how I’d missed out on a family trip to the beach the weekend before because I wanted to research unidentified bodies and tidal flows, and wondered to myself if perhaps Priya had a point.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll make up my own ending.’

  But even that didn’t work because my fictional imaginings kept clashing with the evidence. I thought about how I’d want Violet’s story to end. I imagined her leaving Heron Green and fleeing to London, changing her name and launching a successful career as an artist. But George had examined all sorts of lesser-known works by lesser-known artists influenced by the Pre-Raphaelites and none of them matched the pictures we knew Violet had drawn. She’d obviously stopped painting when she disappeared. Or if she’d continued, she’d not had any success as an artist.

  I drummed my fingers on my desk. I was sitting in my study, a few days after Priya had her babies. One of the twins had surprised everyone by turning out to be a boy, much to Nik’s delight, and the girls doted on their new siblings, Nina and Arun. She was home already and coping brilliantly. I was planning to pop round and see her later, but first I wanted to have a crack at writing a new ending for Violet’s story.

  Fed up with my lame attempts, I spun round in my chair and stared out of the window to the sea beyond. It was a gloomy day and the waves were deep grey.

  ‘Where are you, Vi?’ I said out loud.

  Over by the wall, Dumbledore gave a little snore. As soon as he’d got big enough to get up and down the stairs by himself, he’d taken to sleeping in my study. I liked having him there when I was on my own during the day and I thought he liked the patch of sunlight that fell along the wall – the mystery wall as we jokingly called it – because that’s where he always chose to curl up. In the end, I’d put a blanket there for him and even though the low winter sun didn’t reach his spot now he still stayed there.

  I smiled at him and turned back to my work. Maybe it wasn’t a happy ending Violet needed after all. Despite my fondness for her and my desperate hope that perhaps it all worked out in the end, I couldn’t ignore the fact that all the evidence pointed to a miserable outcome.

  ‘I can work this out,’ I muttered to myself. ‘I’ve read enough crime novels, talked to enough police officers, and plotted enough stories to come up with a credible story about what happened.’

  Filled with a new enthusiasm, I cleaned off my whiteboard with a flourish. Time to start working out who was where, and when.

  I knew Edwin Forrest was a nasty piece of work, prone to violence, and I knew that Frances and Violet seemed to be – unlikely as it sounded – allies of a sort. The handyman, William Philips, must have known Violet well as he’d worked for her father for years, so I thought pe
rhaps he was protective of her.

  I spent all day in my office, staring at the whiteboard, trying to make various scenarios work given what I knew about crimes, and domestic violence, and murders.

  The one thing I kept coming back to was that William Philips was found outside the Forrests’ house, while Edwin Forrest had been at the bottom of the stairs, inside, and Frances upstairs on the landing.

  ‘Was it you?’ I said, looking at a copy of the photo of Frances that Winnie had given me. ‘Did you fight back? Shove him down the stairs just to make him stop?’

  I couldn’t blame her if she had. I even admired her in a way. But that still didn’t explain what had happened to Violet.

  I imagined the four people – Violet, Frances, William, and Edwin – outside the Forrests’ home. It had been raining, so they wouldn’t have been chatting and hanging out in the garden – they’d have to have been going in or out of the house. Perhaps Violet had been walking past when she had come across an argument or confrontation between Frances and Edwin. Maybe Frances was trying to get Edwin to leave?

  Whatever the reason, I imagined Violet rushing up the path trying to stop the argument. Maybe William Philips got involved in the same way? Edwin was brutal; I knew that. Maybe he’d lashed out at Violet and William Philips had charged to her aid?

  I paced round the study, Dumbledore darting about my feet thinking it was all a game.

  ‘So there’s a big fight,’ I said aloud. ‘Violet is trying to calm things down and Edwin lashes out at her. What would she do? He’s violent and angry presumably. Has he hit her before? Is she scared? Would she run away?’

  I stared out of the window to the rough sea. ‘Where? To the beach?’

  I shook my head. She wouldn’t go to the beach on a day like this, with the wind whipping the waves up the shingle.

  ‘She’d go home,’ I said to Dumbledore. ‘She’d run home, where it was safe.’

  He yapped at me in agreement. Or possibly just because he wanted to play. I bent down and rubbed his head and he ran around wildly for a few seconds then bounded back across to his blanket and curled up by the wall once more.

  I stared at him.

  ‘She’d want to be safe,’ I said again, more slowly this time. ‘Maybe she felt safe up here, where she painted her pictures.’

  I looked round at the cupboard behind me. She could have squeezed in there if she’d had to. But she couldn’t have stayed in there long – as soon as people started looking they’d have found her.

  Then I looked again at the mystery wall. Wondering if the crazy way my mind was going could possibly be right.

  Carefully, I pulled still-sleeping Dumbledore on his blanket away from the wall. Why did he choose to snooze there? I felt the patch where he curled up. It was warmer than the rest of the wall – could that mean something or did it just mean Dumbledore had warmed it up with his body heat?

  Sitting on the floor, I ran my hand along the bottom of the bricks, where the wall met the floor, to see if I could feel anything different about Dumbledore’s chosen spot. The whole wall was wallpapered but right at the bottom I could feel a slight difference. Parts of the wall were rough to the touch, while Dumbledore’s bit was smoother.

  ‘Mummy?’

  I jumped in surprise as Oscar appeared beside me. I hadn’t realized it was so late. ‘Hello, darling,’ I said. ‘How was school?’

  ‘I want the iPad,’ he said. ‘Can I have it?’

  ‘Not just now,’ I said, slightly annoyed at his interruption. ‘After dinner.’

  ‘I just need it for a minute,’ he said, flashing me what he obviously thought was a winning smile. ‘Why are you on the floor?’

  ‘I was looking for something. Want to help?’

  ‘Can I have the iPad after?’

  ‘No, you can have it after dinner. Now are you going to help?’

  Oscar gave me a look of sheer defiance. ‘I am not going to help you unless I can have the iPad.’

  ‘No,’ I said again.

  ‘But,’ Oscar began.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re not even letting me talk.’

  ‘No.’

  Infuriated, Oscar aimed a small kick at the wall next to where I sat. ‘I hate this house,’ he said. ‘It’s stupid. Stupid house.’

  He pulled his leg back, and with a strike worthy of David Beckham, kicked the wall with all his might. And his foot went right through.

  ‘Mummy!’ he said in terror, hopping on the foot that wasn’t stuck.

  ‘Oscar!’ I said, grabbing him to steady him on his one foot.

  ‘Sorry,’ he wailed. ‘Are you cross?’

  Still hanging on to him, I clambered to my feet and dropped a kiss on his head. ‘Actually, no,’ I said. ‘You’ve found what I was looking for, you clever boy.’

  Oscar looked bewildered as I tried to pull his foot gently out of the wall. It was stuck fast thanks to his sturdy school shoe.

  ‘Take your foot out of your shoe,’ I said.

  ‘I can’t,’ Oscar cried. ‘Help me!’

  I swallowed a laugh as I bent down. I reached into the hole he’d made and pulled the Velcro straps on his shoe. ‘Wiggle your foot out,’ I said.

  Oscar did as I’d said. His foot came free, but his shoe stayed sticking half in and half out of the hole. He stood looking sheepish.

  ‘Sorry, Mummy,’ he said.

  ‘You shouldn’t kick walls,’ I said, trying to look stern while a bubble of excitement was rising up inside me. ‘But maybe you have solved the mystery.’

  Chapter 62

  Oscar still looked like he didn’t really understand what on earth was going on. I gave him a cuddle.

  ‘Is Daddy here?’ I asked.

  Oscar nodded. ‘He’s in the kitchen with Margaret.’

  ‘Then can you run downstairs – take your other shoe off first I think – and tell Daddy what’s happened? Tell him I need him up here.’

  Oscar pulled his shoe off without undoing the straps and fled, no doubt thinking he’d got off lightly.

  I pulled at his shoe, which was still stuck in the wall. It wouldn’t shift. I pulled harder, then pushed it. It disappeared behind the wall in a puff of dust.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Ben appeared behind me.

  ‘Look,’ I said. ‘Oscar kicked the wall.’

  ‘He did what?’ Ben tutted.

  ‘No, no, it’s fine – look what happened.’

  Ben crouched down next to me. ‘I knew it was hollow,’ he said in triumph.

  ‘Oscar’s shoe is inside the hole,’ I said. ‘Shall we bash the wall some more to get it out?’

  I looked at him, desperately hoping he’d agree and we would find out what was hidden behind the wall. I had a strong feeling whatever we found was going to reveal the truth about what had happened to Violet.

  Ben stood up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ I said.

  ‘We need a hammer,’ he said with a wink.

  He was back in a flash.

  ‘The boys are watching Elf,’ he said. ‘I told Margaret we’d found something interesting in your study. She’s making their tea.’

  ‘Good stuff.’

  Ben aimed the hammer at the edge of the hole Oscar’s shoe had left, chipping away the edges, and I pulled off layers of the wallpaper as he worked.

  Ben’s efforts revealed a smallish square hole.

  ‘I’d been wondering why Dumbledore always sleeps at the same patch,’ I explained. ‘I could feel it was different but I didn’t know why. That’s why I was sitting here when Oscar came upstairs.’

  ‘I think the rest of the wall is brick,’ Ben said. ‘But this bit is wooden, which is probably why Dumbledore likes it. It’s warmer no doubt. Look, it’s a little hatch with hinges, and it’s rotten, that’s why Oscar’s foot went through it. If Oscar had kicked a little way over, he would have just hurt his toes – he wouldn’t have gone through.’

  He reached into the now much bigger hole and picked
up Oscar’s shoe. I swept away the wood chips with my arm and together we crouched down and peered through the wall.

  ‘What would you do if someone looked out at us,’ I said, only half joking. All the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. Ben shuddered.

  I blinked as I stared into the dim light of the recess, hardly believing what was beginning to show itself as my eyes got used to the gloom.

  ‘I can see a painting,’ I said. ‘At least I think I can.’ I could see an outline and faint colours.

  Ben looked at me in disbelief. ‘Where?’

  ‘There,’ I gestured through the hole. ‘See the colours on the wall?’

  ‘I can’t see anything,’ Ben said.

  ‘I can fit through there,’ I said, surprising myself with my boldness. ‘I’m going inside.’

  ‘No you are not,’ said Ben. ‘What if you can’t get out again?’

  ‘Scaredy cat,’ I said.

  He frowned. ‘You’ve changed your tune,’ he said. ‘Seriously, though. What if it’s not safe? What if the whole wall comes down?’

  ‘It’s been here for well over a century,’ I pointed out. ‘The house isn’t suddenly going to fall down because a small boy kicked a wall. What if this is to do with Violet? What if it’s the answer I’ve been searching for?’

  Ben shuddered again. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Just be careful.’

  I got on my stomach and squeezed through the gap. It was a tight fit but with a bit of wriggling I made it. Then I got to my feet, rubbing the dust from my jeans.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ I breathed. It was incredible. The space was tiny – simply the chimney alcove – but one whole wall, the wall opposite the hole I’d just wriggled through – was covered in the most wonderful painting. I was transfixed. It was Violet’s work, there was no doubt about that, and it was another – enormous – copy of ‘Mariana’, but she’d changed the details again. Once more this painting was of Violet, but the room she waited in now was this tiny cell.

  In the background, where a candle burned in the original ‘Mariana’, was a strange ethereal glow. I squinted. It was almost in the shape of a woman. And at Violet’s feet, instead of leaves, were crumpled pieces of paper.