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‘Did she?’

  ‘What have you done to your hair?’ Cloudy eyes peered at her. ‘It used to be so long and beautiful. I used to brush it for hours, didn’t I, when we were little?’

  Lexie reached up and touched spikes.

  ‘I cut it short.’

  ‘And dyed it red!’ she cackled. ‘Like a radish! What’s for tea?’

  Lexie said gently, ‘Who are you? What’s your name?’

  ‘Edith Lawrence.’

  A hoot of laughter pulled the corner of Lexie’s lips into a responsive twitch of amusement. There was a quality in Edith’s laughter that was seriously infectious.

  ‘Edith Dorothy Lawrence. You can’t have forgotten your own sister’s name, surely?’

  Sister?

  ‘Well, it’s nice to meet you, Edith. I’m Lexie. Lexie Gordon.’

  Edith looked puzzled. She tugged the dressing gown tightly round herself with a quick, jerky movement.

  ‘Tell me,’ she said, ‘how are the children?’

  ‘Children?’

  What sideways shuffle had Edith’s confused mind performed? What children did she mean? Her own, perhaps? Or Maud’s, the person she’d been mistaken for?

  ‘What children?’

  Edith’s bright veneer slipped, as if the answer had thrown her.

  ‘What’s for tea?’ she demanded once more.

  Had she realised she’d said something irrational? Was the change of subject a strategy she’d learned as a cover? Lexie picked her words carefully.

  ‘If you let me take you home, we’ll soon find out.’

  Unexpectedly, Edith cackled.

  ‘Silly Maud! Teasing me again. This is my home.’

  For some reason, an image of one of her paintings flashed into Lexie’s mind – a large, complicated canvas, with shadowy shapes and clown-like creatures twisting in and out of a maze of thorny bushes. ‘Labyrinth’, she’d called it. Patrick had salivated over its ‘hugely evocative darkness’. We walk in a world of dreams and of nightmares, she’d written in the notes for the catalogue that was almost ready to go to print, a world where nothing is what it seems and smiling faces can turn to deathly grinning skulls in the blink of an eye or a twist of the mind.

  Twist of the mind? Lexie looked down at the tattoo round her thumb and turned it so that she could read the whole word. Artbollocks. How could she ever have forgotten its message? Now she’d been confronted with a mind where small twists had become lethal kinks, masking emotions whose complexity and fragility could only be guessed at, and she found it both disconcerting and intriguing.

  ‘I thought I heard voices.’

  She turned and saw her mother standing in the doorway. These days, Lexie was as guilty as Martha about fussing. She wanted to protect her mother – after all, it was why she’d committed herself to living in Fernhill for a year. Since Jamie’s death, little changes in routine unsettled Martha and Edith’s arrival could hardly be described as normal.

  Concerned, she said, ‘Mum, meet Edith Lawrence. She just—’ how to describe Edith’s entrance? ‘—decided to pop in.’

  She gestured at the window, which was still wide open.

  ‘Through the window.’

  ‘Edith Dorothy Lawrence,’ chirped Edith with emphasis, her cheerfulness returned.

  ‘Hello, Edith.’ There was a brittle brightness in Martha’s voice. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Her mother used to be spontaneous and charming, but Jamie’s death had changed her, as it had marked all of them. Lexie expected her to be uncertain about how to handle their unexpected visitor, but now she watched, astonished, as her mother walked forward and laid a gentle hand on the old woman’s arm to make a connection.

  She’s found someone to care for again.

  The sudden re-emergence of the old Martha was slightly shocking. Now Lexie was the one who felt unsettled and inadequate.

  ‘Alexa, have you offered our guest tea?’

  She pulled herself together and leapt to her feet. ‘I was just going to put on the kettle.’ Never, she thought, assume anything.

  Martha’s light tone continued. ‘Tell me, Edith, what’s brought you to see us?’

  ‘They left Margaret to die, you know,’ Edith said darkly.

  ‘Did they? That’s terrible.’

  ‘We used to have tea together.’

  Edith sniffed, her nose in the air. The green hat teetered uncertainly on her head.

  ‘But her table manners were terrible. And she took the best cake without even asking.’

  ‘Who left her to die?’

  ‘Die? Who’s talking about dying? No need for talk like that. Isn’t the tea ready yet, Maud? Don’t forget the sugar. Such a treat, having sugar. We were never allowed it in the war, you know.’

  Lexie was fascinated by the twists and turns in Edith’s conversation. She set out three mugs but Edith peered at her accusingly.

  ‘Where’s the china? It used to be in the dresser, but of course, if you’ve got rid of it… You didn’t sell the china as well, did you?’

  ‘I didn’t sell the china, I promise you,’ Lexie soothed. ‘Give me a moment and I’ll find some cups.’

  Wanting to please Edith, she removed the mugs and headed for the dining room. As she passed through the hall, there was the sound of a key in the lock and a shadow fell through the glass in the front door.

  ‘Is it too early,’ Tom Gordon said in a determinedly cheerful voice, ‘to ask for a glass of wine?’

  Lexie kissed his cheek.

  ‘Hi Dad. We’ve got a visitor. A rather unusual one. She climbed in through the kitchen window.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘She’s in the kitchen, having tea. We’re not sure what to do with her.’

  ‘Climbed in through the kitchen window? Well, whoever she is, she can just climb right back out again.’

  He dropped his briefcase in the hall and shoved open the kitchen door.

  ‘Hello, Father,’ Edith said. ‘I wondered when you’d get home.’

  Later, after the evening had played out its odd course and the local police had returned Edith to her care home, Lexie thought about everything that had happened.

  Edith must have come to Fernhill because she knew the place. Something had driven her to walk an astonishing seven miles in carpet slippers and dressing gown from nearby Musselburgh all the way to Hailesbank. The urge that had guided her along the highways and byways must have been immensely powerful.

  Lexie switched her bedside light back on and sat up. The lace of her short chemise slid across her pale skin like whipped cream, so fine and frothy it barely existed. It was already midnight and she had to get up early, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep until she’d drawn Edith’s face. It wasn’t difficult – the memory of the puckered features was very much alive. Edith Dorothy Lawrence, she realised, had walked into her world and she was obviously not going to walk out again any time soon. She had to find out what her story was – and she wasn’t going to sleep easily again until she did.

  As Lexie sketched, two other things occurred to her.

  First: she’d left the trout on the worktop, uncovered and uncooked, because after all the turmoil and confusion of events, she and her parents had forgotten all about it.

  And second: she hadn’t thought about Jamie all evening.

  She dropped her pencil and closed her eyes, trying to reach him now – but, irritatingly, it was another man who swam into focus.

  Bloody, bloody Cameron Forrester, who had barged through a door this morning and sent her, metaphorically, flying.

  She picked up her pencil again and drew, rapidly.

  Chapter Five

  Catalogue number 16: White men’s ballet pumps, canvas. Donor: Pavel Skonieczna, Hailesbank. The material is gathered at the toe and tucked in under a suede sole. The heel is similarly treated, with the sole split so that the shoe is completely flexible.

  From the High Street, Besalú looked like a traditional sherry bar, with a dark, polish
ed mahogany counter and a stylish array of bottles – fino, manzanilla, palo cortado, amontillado and dark, nutty oloroso. Carlotta was engaged in fighting a rearguard action to make sherry fashionable in East Lothian, but it was the tapas that had made Besalú popular. A couple of years ago she had surprised everyone by commissioning and project-managing the building of a large extension into the garden at the back to extend the tapas restaurant, together with a small function room at one side. Both were regularly booked out.

  The extension housed twenty tables comfortably, and its entire back wall comprised concertina glass doors. In good weather, these could be folded back so that restaurant, garden and river appeared to meld seamlessly. It was not unusual for the bar on the High Street to be bursting and for all twenty tables in the extension to be occupied, so when Molly had phoned, sounding tired and anxious and wanting to talk, Lexie had booked a table immediately.

  Just as well, she thought, surveying the restaurant when she arrived, because only one other table was still empty, and it had a ‘Reserved’ sign placed conspicuously on its tiled surface. She settled with a jug of Sangria and waited.

  Molly was late and Lexie was about to text when she spotted her sleek blonde hair at the door.

  ‘Over here!’

  She watched Molly negotiate her way through the crowded restaurant. A couple in the corner leaned across the table in an obvious effort to hear each other above a rowdy group beside them while further along, two children among a family party were behaving impeccably. A waiter in Besalú uniform of yellow shirt and red waistcoat (Carlotta’s style was both flamboyant and patriotic) balanced a huge tray of tapas confidently on one hand high above his head, and followed her. Lexie saw him deliver his cargo safely to a crowd of underdressed and overconfident teenagers who were probably celebrating the end of their exams. He proceeded to flirt outrageously with them and their shrills of laughter turned heads.

  ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘No problem. Busy?’

  Molly slumped down on her chair and breathed a heavy sigh. ‘You could say. I’m trying to cope with running everything as well as masterminding the Home Farm renovation. Is that Sangria?’

  ‘I ordered a jug. Too corny?’

  ‘Inspired. Just fill it up.’ Molly slid her glass towards Lexie. ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to get out.’

  Molly’s five-year marriage to ambitious lawyer Adam Blair had stumbled to an abrupt and inexplicable end a year ago and they’d separated. Lexie liked Adam, a clever man with a dry sense of humour, and found her friend’s refusal to discuss the breakup deeply puzzling. Soon after it had happened, Molly had abandoned her promising career in marketing and landed a new job at Fleming House.

  In the middle of all her own woes, Lexie still found time to worry about her. It suited Molly to declare herself on a sabbatical from men and her long hours, combined with the remote location of her apartment,up a winding spiral stair in the old servants’ quarters at the back of Fleming House, was a perfect excuse to keep herself hidden away. Still, it wasn’t like the gregarious Molly that Lexie had known since primary school.

  ‘What did you want to talk about?’

  Molly drank greedily and held her glass out again.

  ‘Are you going to be all right to drive?’

  ‘You kidding? Not a chance. I’ll get a cab home and someone’ll shunt me back tomorrow to pick up my car.’ Molly smoothed already sleek hair. ‘Just wanted to offload, really. The renovation’s getting me down. It’s too much work on top of everything else.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘No problem, it’s just eating time. We’re going through the tenders for the fit-out. I suppose everything can move forward again after we’ve done that.’

  ‘Fit-out?’

  ‘You know, the interior design work, the decor, all the furniture and fittings—’

  ‘Furniture?’ Lexie had an idea. ‘Hey, Moll, any chance of Gordon’s pitching for supplying that?’

  ‘I didn’t know you did that kind of thing.’

  ‘We don’t. Or rather, we haven’t done till now – but why not? We could easily fulfil a contract.’

  ‘Well, it’s not my call. You’d have to ask the company we select if you can tender to them. I wouldn’t have any say in it, you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  It was business, and she had to do her best for Gordon’s, so she persisted.

  ‘But will you tell me who you’ve chosen so that we can approach them?’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’ She drained her glass and refilled it from the jug. ‘Now, business over. Tell me about yesterday. Was it awful?’

  In all the confusion of Edith’s arrival through the kitchen window, the anniversary of her brother’s death had slid into the shadows. Now the high, unbroken voice of a ten-year-old Jamie suddenly rang in Alexa’s ears.

  Into the valley of death rode the six hundred.

  Ludicrous. Why now? Why this poem? It had been his favourite. She could picture him, chin up, hands clasped behind his back, reciting it with relish.

  Theirs not to make reply. Theirs not to reason why. Theirs but to do or die…

  The valley of death. Jamie had driven into the valley of death. Jolted back two decades, Alexa’s head whirled with half-forgotten snippets. Mad, bad and dangerous to know. Who was that again? Not Tennyson. Byron. That was it. Byron. Her brother had never been bad (at least, not in a venal sense, only deliciously, fun-lovingly wicked) but that night he’d certainly been dangerous to know. She pursed her lips. At least he’d been alone. If there’d been someone with him… ‘Lexie?’

  Molly’s hand curled round hers and she focused with difficulty.

  ‘You all right? I’m sorry, I should have been more careful how I asked.’

  Molly’s hazel eyes were awash.

  She’s upset too, Lexie thought, moved by the staunchness of Molly’s friendship.

  ‘I’m fine, Moll, you mustn’t worry.’

  These moments with Jamie passed like wraiths and were gone. They didn’t disturb her.

  ‘Yesterday was okay, actually. In fact, we couldn’t have thought about Jamie less.’

  Molly blew her nose. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It was weird. He’d been lurking all day, as if he was playing hide and seek, waiting for a suitable time to leap out and surprise us, and instead it was someone else who surprised us.’

  Molly dabbed at a suspicion of dampness on her cheek then stuffed the handkerchief back into her pocket.

  ‘What in heaven’s name are you talking about?’

  ‘Maybe Jamie sent the diversion so that we weren’t sad.’

  ‘Jamie sent—?’

  Lexie held out her glass.

  ‘Pour me some more Sangria, Moll, but for goodness sake let’s get our order in or we’ll get too smashed to talk. Then I’ll tell you.’

  The joy of Besalú was that you could order a few small dishes and they arrived from the kitchen quickly. The secret of Carlotta’s success was that no-one ever stopped at those – with every drink the temptation was to order more tapas, and when there were tapas left and glasses were empty, to order more drink. And so the cycle continued and the evening passed and profits swelled. By the time they had polished off the banderillas and tortilla, the calamares and the Manchego with quince arrived. Demolishing the crispy squid with gusto, Lexie finished telling Molly about Edith Dorothy Lawrence and her bizarre visit.

  ‘She sounds,’ Molly said, helping herself to a lump of cheese and tearing off some bread to go with it, ‘just like my grandmother.’

  If she’d been upset at the mention of Jamie, there was no sign of it now.

  ‘She’s a lot more confused than your gran.’

  ‘Gran’s getting worse. Pass your glass, there’s some Sangria left.’ Molly topped up their glasses and lifted the jug towards a passing waiter to signify it needed replenishing. She giggled. ‘Last week she made a fruit cake and forgot to put any
fruit in.’

  ‘Anyone can make mistakes. But Edith Lawrence kept calling me Maud. She thinks I’m her sister.’

  ‘Maud!’ Molly hooted with laughter, then appraised Lexie seriously. ‘Suits you.’

  ‘Shut up! It does not. It makes me sound like I’m a hundred. Want to see her?’

  ‘See Edith?’

  Lexie bent down to the floor and picked up her bag. She was never without her sketchbook.

  ‘Here.’

  She turned the pages until she found her drawings.

  ‘Wow. Is she really that old?’

  ‘She looks about ninety, but I guess she can’t be.’

  Molly flicked the page. ‘You’re so bloody talented, Lexie. I don’t need to meet the woman, you’ve shown her to me perfectly.’

  She turned another page. ‘What’s this?’

  Lexie made a lunge for the book, but Molly wrenched it out of her grasp.

  ‘Lexie?’

  ‘Give it here.’

  She’d forgotten about the drawings of Cameron, and although she had been dying to tell Molly about him, she’d intended to do it in her own way. Her sketches, because they captured something of the observer as well as the observed, were too revealing.

  ‘Tell me.’ Molly held the sketchbook behind her back, her stare unrelenting.

  Lexie scowled. It was impossible to retrieve her drawings without making a scene, so she sat back and crossed her arms defensively – but Molly kept staring and Lexie was the first to cave in.

  ‘He came into the store yesterday.’

  Molly’s jaw sagged in surprise and she dropped the sketchbook onto the table with a thump.

  ‘Cameron did? Cameron Forrester?’

  Lexie grabbed the book and stuffed it back in her bag before Molly could appropriate it again.

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘He just appeared?’

  ‘He was there when I got in at nine.’

  ‘He’s back in Hailesbank, he came to see you, and he got up before nine?’ The green in Molly’s eyes glittered. ‘Why’s he back?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘Really? What did he say?’

  ‘Not a lot.’

  ‘So why did he come in?’

  ‘I don’t know.’