Lettice Keswick Her Garden Book, the frontispiece said, and as I turned the pages, I caught my breath in surprise and delight.
Lettice had written a charming little book about the gardens at Kilgram Chase, her gardens: She told how she had planned and designed them, what she had planted, and why. But most important, the book was beautifully illustrated with watercolors and drawings by Lettice herself. In this it resembled the original diary we had come across last November, but there were many more illustrations in this particular book.
Hilary also exclaimed about its beauty when I showed it to her, and she went as far as to say it was better than the diary.
I did not agree. But there was no doubt that Lettice’s illustrations of flowers, trees, shrubs, and plants were superb, as were her actual plans of the various gardens.
Investigating the trunk further, I pulled out four other old books, hoping against hope that they were all Lettice’s work.
One was bound in purple leather, and it looked a little less scratched and used than the others. I discovered, on opening it, that it was a volume of Victorian recipes. All were written out in Clarissa’s wonderful copperplate handwriting, which I had so admired before. There was no doubt in my mind that it was of her own compilation and that it reflected her own tastes in the culinary art.
There was also a cookbook by the prolific Lettice, and this contained all kinds of seventeenth-century recipes, along with household tips and advice on the use of herbs for medicines.
But it was the last two books which thrilled me the most. One was Lettice Keswick’s diary for the year 1663; the other was Clarissa’s careful copy of it, again written out painstakingly in her unmistakable copperplate. I could hardly wait to read it.
“It’s been worth all the hard work this week, Hilary,” I said, struggling to my feet and bending down to pick up the books. “These are very special.”
“What will Mrs. Keswick do with them, do you think?” she asked, a quizzical expression settling on her face.
“I’m not sure. Probably nothing in the end, because I don’t know what she could do, Hilary, to tell you the truth. But they’re nice to have, aren’t they?”
“Yes. Maybe she’ll put them on display, you know, in a glass case, like they do with old books in libraries,” Hilary murmured, sounding thoughtful all of a sudden. “Mrs. Keswick has the garden fête for the church every summer. Maybe people could pay something extra to come into the house and see the books. Proceeds to go to the church, of course.”
“That’s a good idea, Hilary. Clever of you.”
Looking pleased at my compliment, she went on more confidently, “There’re a lot of people around here would be interested to get a tour of this house, too, but Mrs. Keswick will never open it to the public.”
I didn’t say anything.
Hilary said, “Well, she wouldn’t, would she?”
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask her,” I said.
***
After I had had my cup of tea, which Parky usually brought to me at about four-thirty, I went back and sat at the refectory table in front of the soaring, mullioned window. It was a clear, sunny afternoon, and anyway, the light was always good on this side of the library.
I had just begun to read Lettice’s diary, which she had started in January of 1663, when the loud shrilling of the telephone made me jump slightly.
Automatically, I reached for it and picked up the receiver.
“Kilgram Chase,” I said.
There was the sound of static, and then I heard David’s voice saying, “Mal, is that you?”
“Yes, it is,” I said and found myself clutching the phone all that much tighter. “Do you have news?”
“DeMarco’s done it!” he exclaimed. “He and Johnson arrested the four youths over the weekend. I didn’t call you earlier, because I was waiting for further developments, and—”
“Did they do it?” I cut in, my voice rising an octave.
“Yes. DeMarco and Johnson are positive the four of them are the perpetrators. Two sets of fingerprints from the car match those of two of the youths. Another was in possession of the gun, the nine-millimeter semiautomatic. It went to ballistics, and the report is conclusive: It is the gun that was used.”
“So they’ll go before a grand jury?”
“They have already. DeMarco and Johnson moved with great speed, on Monday. The hearing was yesterday, and the grand jury has voted to indict them on charges of murder in the second degree. They’ll be going to trial.”
“When will that be?” I asked.
“DeMarco’s not sure. The prosecutor has to prepare the case, as I explained to you last week. Bail was denied, naturally. And all four currently are in jail. Which is where they’ll spend the rest of their lives. They’re not going to get off, I can assure you of that.”
“Was it . . .” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Was it like Detective DeMarco said . . . was it an attempted carjacking, David?”
“Yes, it was. Gone wrong, of course.”
“Did DeMarco tell you why . . . why Andrew and the twins were shot?” I asked, my voice so low it was barely audible.
“He told me that two of the youths were hopped up. Doped up, Mal, full of drugs. They’d apparently been smoking crack cocaine, and one of them just went wild for no reason at all. Just started to fire the gun wildly . . .”
“Oh, God, oh, God, David,” I whispered. I could hardly speak.
“I know, I know, honey,” he answered, his voice loving and as sympathetic as it always was. “Are you all right?”
I couldn’t respond. I sat there in the library, gripping the phone, my knuckles white and my eyes staring blindly into space.
“Mal, are you there?”
I swallowed hard. “I’m here.” I took another deep breath. “Thanks for calling, David. I’ll be in touch.”
“Take care of yourself, Mal. We’ll phone you on Sunday. Bye.”
I hung up without saying another word and went out of the library. Crossing the hall, my body hunched over and my arms wrapped around myself, I made it to the staircase without anyone seeing me.
Grabbing hold of the bannister, I dragged myself upstairs, slowly lifting one foot after the other. They felt as heavy as lead.
Once I was inside my bedroom, I fell onto the bed and pulled the comforter over me. I had begun to shake, and I couldn’t stop. Reaching for a pillow, I buried my face in it, wanting to stifle the sound of my dry, wracking sobs.
My husband and my babies had died needlessly, for nothing, for no reason at all.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
YORKSHIRE, MAY 1989
Up here on the wild, untenanted moors it was a truly pretty day. The sunlit air was soft, balmy, and the vast expanse of sky was cerulean blue, scattered with wispy white clouds.
The air was pure, and I breathed deeply as I walked along the path that had led me from the woods of Kilgram Chase, across the adjoining field, and up onto the lower reaches of the moors.
At one moment I looked up and caught my breath, as always awed by the high-flung fells that soared above me like giant cliffs. They dwarfed everything below, made the floor of the valley and the pastoral green dales seem so much gentler.
I would not go up to the fells today; distances were deceptive in these hills, and they were much farther away than they appeared. In any case, it was too difficult a trek.
But it did not take me long to reach my destination. This was the spot that Andrew had loved from his childhood, and where he had often brought me in the past. It was a stretch of moorland above Kilgram Chase, under the shadows of the great Ragland Fell, up near Dern Ghyll. It was a deep ravine, with an extraordinary waterfall cascading down over its sheer drops and rough-hewn stones.
I had discovered long ago that I was never very far away from the sound of running water on these moors. They were seamed with tinkling little becks and larger streams, and waterfalls that came effortlessly tumbling down over the rocks and crags
in the most unexpected places.
Feeling quite warm after my walk, I took off my jacket, spread it on the ground, and sat down on it. I stared at the vast panorama stretching out before me; there was nothing but rolling moors sweeping down to the dales and the fields, for as far as the eye could see. No dwellings here. Except, of course, for Diana’s house nestled against the trees directly below me.
After a short while, I lay down with my head on my jacket and closed my eyes. I enjoyed the peace up here; I was transported into another world.
There was no noise at all, except for the gentle sounds of nature. The faint buzzing of a bee, the scurry of rabbits rustling through the bilberry and bracken, the occasional bleat of a stray sheep, the trilling of the birds, and that ever-present rush of water dropping over the edge of Dern Ghyll close by.
Today was Thursday, the fourth of May.
My birthday.
I was thirty-four years old today.
I felt older, much older than my years, and scarred by the deaths of my children and my husband. Without them my life would never be the same, and sorrow was my constant companion.
But I no longer had the overwhelming urge to kill myself, and those terrible, debilitating depressions took hold of me less frequently these days. On the other hand, I had not solved the problem of earning a living or finding a job that I liked. I was at a loss, living in a kind of limbo.
I sighed and brushed a fly away from my cheek.
Lulled by the warmth and the sun on my face and bare arms, I felt suddenly drowsy. I drifted off, calmed by the peacefulness of this place.
Big drops of rain splashing on my face awakened me, and I sat up with a start, groaning out loud when I saw the darkening sky, the rain clouds gathering just above Ragland Fell.
In the distance there was the crack of thunder sounding off like cannon, and a sudden flash of bright white lightning lit up the sky. It ripped through the blackened clouds which had suddenly begun to burst.
A moment later I was already drenched by the most ferocious, slashing rain. Snatching up my jacket, I struggled into it and began to run down past Dern Ghyll, making for the winding path which would lead me back to Kilgram Chase.
In my haste I stumbled several times, and once I almost slipped, but somehow I managed to keep my balance. I went on running, pushing my wet hair away from my face, trying to keep up a steady pace. And I kept asking myself why I never heeded Wilf’s warnings about the unpredictable weather up here.
Later, when Diana asked me what happened, I was unable to tell her because I had absolutely no idea how I came to fall. But fall I did. Without warning, I went sprawling at the top of an incline, and before I could check myself I was sliding and rolling down the side of the steep moorland.
I finally came to rest in a gully, and I lay there for a few minutes, gasping, catching my breath. I was winded and felt slightly battered after tumbling such a long way.
Struggling into a sitting position, I looped my wet hair behind my ears and tried to get up. Instantly, I felt the pain shooting from my ankle up my leg, and I sat down again. I realized I had either wrenched or sprained it; I didn’t think it was broken. I slithered along the ground until I reached the rock formation at one side of the gully. Here I gripped a protruding rock, endeavoring to pull myself to my feet. I discovered I had difficulty standing, let alone walking.
Thunder and lightning had started raging again, and it seemed to me that the rain was much heavier than before. Uncertain what I ought to do, I decided it would be wisest to shelter here under the rocks until the storm abated. Only then would I try to make it back to Kilgram Chase.
The rocks offered me some protection because they formed an overhang. By crouching down, I was able to shuffle myself under this, where it was reasonably dry. I attempted to wring out my hair with my hands, and then I squeezed the bottom of my trousers. My loafers were wet through and covered in mud, as were the rest of my clothes.
Much to my dismay, the rain continued to come down in great streams; the thunder and lightning were a constant barrage and seemed never-ending. Shivering with cold, my teeth chattering, I pushed myself against the back wall of the rocks, praying that the weather would calm down as quickly as it had erupted.
But it did not, and it grew darker by the minute. Hardly any blue sky was visible now as the thunderheads came scudding in, whipped along by the wind, which had started to blow quite fiercely. From this spot I could just make out the trees bending and swaying in the fields below me.
I sat under the rocks for over two hours, shaking with cold, trying to keep myself calm. The light had grown much dimmer, and I was afraid I was going to be stranded up here in the dark. Even when the rain stopped, I knew I would not get very far hopping or limping my way back to the house.
Growing more stiff and cramped and numb, I twisted my body, stretched out my legs, and lay lengthwise. This was a bit more comfortable, but not much.
From time to time the rumbling clouds parted and I saw a sliver of gray sky. Then it changed unexpectedly, and a peculiar white light began to shimmer on the edge of the horizon, suffusing the dark clouds with an aureole of radiance.
The sky was looking strange, almost eerie, but it was nevertheless quite beautiful. The light grew brighter, sharper, and I held my breath. Eerie or not, it was magnificent.
As I lay staring at that brilliant sky, trying to still my worry, I heard his voice. Andrew’s voice. Mal.
It was clear, very close, so close I pushed myself up swiftly and changed my position under the rocks. Again I heard my name.
Mal.
“I’m here,” I answered, almost to myself.
Don’t be afraid. You’ll be all right. Listen to me now. You must be strong and brave. As long as you are alive you will carry the memory of me in your heart. I will live on in you. As Jamie and Lissa will live on in you. We are watching over you, Mal. But it’s time for you to move on. Gather your strength. You must go on with your life. Go forward into the future.
“Andrew,” I said, looking about me anxiously. “Are you there? Don’t leave me, don’t go away.”
I am always with you, darling. Always. Remember that.
The thunder and lightning stopped.
I peered around again.
I was alone.
The rain ceased abruptly, without any warning. The bright light streaming out from behind the clouds was beginning to diminish and fade, and the stormy clouds were speeding away across the heavens. A fragment of blue appeared above me.
I closed my eyes, thinking.
Had Andrew spoken to me? Or was it all in my own head?
Was my imagination playing tricks again?
“She never paid me any mind, Mrs. Andrew didn’t,” Wilf grumbled. “I allus told her not to come up on these ’ere moors, Joe. I did that. Dangerous they are.”
“Let’s just try and find her,” Joe said. “Stop yakking.”
When I heard their voices nearby, I managed to push myself to my knees. “Help!” I shouted weakly. “Help! I’m down here! Joe! Wilf! Down in the hollow!”
“That’s Mrs. Andrew calling us, Joe,” Wilf cried excitedly. “She’s tummeled in yon gully, I bet she has. Come on, Joe.”
A fraction of a second later Wilf and Joe were peering down at me, relief spreading across their weather-beaten faces.
“Whatever’s happened to you, Mrs. Andrew?” Joe cried, clambering down into the hollow.
“I fell, rolled down the moor, and ended up in here. I hurt my ankle,” I explained, “I’m not sure how well I can walk, Joe. I think I can only hop or limp.”
“Don’t you worry, we’ll have you back home in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Joe said. “Now, come along. Put this barbour on, it’ll keep you warm. By gum, you’re as white as a sheet, and you must be frozen. You’re shaking like a leaf.”
“I be warning you afore, Mrs. Andrew,” Wilf said. “But you never paid me no mind.”
“I’m sorry, Wilf, I should have listen
ed. And you’re right, the weather is unpredictable up here.”
“It is, by gum. Many a poor soul’s been lost on these moors, not found till it was too late. Dead as a doornail, they was,” Wilf intoned in a dolorous voice.
“That’s enough, Wilf,” Joe said. “Now, Mrs. Andrew, just put one arm around my neck, and let’s see if I can help you up out of this gully.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Joe and Wilf half walked me, half carried me back to the house.
We made slow progress because of my ankle; I felt ill, frozen through to my bones, and I had a raging headache. But at least it was no longer raining, and the wind had dropped considerably.
When we finally arrived at Kilgram Chase, Parky, Hilary, and her husband Ben were all waiting for us in the kitchen, their faces anxious.
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Andrew, what happened to you?” Parky cried. “Have you hurt yourself, then?”
“Sprained her ankle, she has,” Joe answered.
“I’m all right, Parky,” I reassured her, although I didn’t feel it at this moment.
“Found her up near yon ghyll, we did, she’d tummeled in a gully,” Wilf said. “And I—”
“It could have been worse,” Hilary exclaimed, cutting him off sharply. Taking charge with sudden briskness, she went on, “There’s no point standing around here nattering. Now, Mrs. Andrew, let’s get you upstairs, get those wet clothes off you. A hot bath is what you need, and something hot inside you.”
Hilary came to me, put her arm around my waist, and helped me across the kitchen.
“I’ll ring up Dr. Gordon, ask him to come, shall I?” Ben said, looking at Hilary.
“Yes, you’d better,” she replied.
“I’m okay, honestly I am,” I interjected. “I’m just cold. Very cold. A bath will do the trick.”
“I think the doctor had better look at your ankle. Best to be on the safe side,” Joe said as we went out into the corridor.
I heard Parky say, “I’ll put the kettle on.”