“What are we having?” Gemma had not seen a label on the bag from which Teresa had spooned the tea.
“An English breakfast blend, mostly Assam—that’s a strong, black, Indian tea,” Teresa explained. “I usually switch to the Ceylons in the afternoon. They’re a bit lighter, more flowery.” The timer beeped and she poured a little milk into the two teacups she’d warmed with water from the kettle, then poured tea into the cups through a fine mesh strainer. She brought Gemma one cup, along with a spoon and sugar bowl, and sat down at her desk with her own. “It’s a habit I learned from Annabelle, and Annabelle from William.” The glance she gave Annabelle’s vacant desk seemed almost involuntary, and she hastily gazed back at her cup.
“Are you the one who cleared Annabelle’s desk?” asked Gemma, tasting her tea. It had a malty richness to it, and she thought it better than any she had ever drunk.
“I’ve shoveled everything into the drawers for now,” Teresa admitted. “It’s just that I couldn’t bear looking at her things. Silly of me, I suppose. It’s not as if I don’t think about her every minute anyway.” She looked up and her pale blue eyes met Gemma’s. “I know you’ll think I’m daft, but sometimes I can almost feel her in the room. And I keep thinking I can smell her perfume.”
Gemma remembered the barely perceptible odor she had noticed a moment ago. “A sort of woodsy, citrusy scent?”
“You can smell it, too? She had it specially made. It had bergamot in it—that’s what’s used in Earl Grey blends. She always said it was more suited to perfumes than tea.”
“I doubt we’re dealing with a ghost here,” Gemma assured her. “Strong scents tend to linger on things—it’s just that in other circumstances you’d probably not notice.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” Teresa agreed, but she didn’t sound convinced. She looked almost pretty today, in a soft blue summer dress, her fair hair pulled back with a matching blue hair slide. But she would always have paled in comparison with Annabelle, no matter the effort she made. Gemma wondered how much she had minded.
Gemma drank more of her tea, making a vow to buy some of it at the first opportunity. “Is Reg Mortimer not in this morning?” she asked.
Teresa flushed. “No, he wasn’t feeling well. This has all been dreadful for him.… Reg was devoted to Annabelle.”
“But was Annabelle devoted to him?”
“What … what do you mean? Of course she was—”
“Then why was she unfaithful to her fiancé on more than one occasion?”
Teresa’s hand froze on the delicate handle of her teacup. “What?”
“Didn’t she confide in you? I thought she might have.”
“Confide what? What are you talking about?”
“Did you know that Annabelle had an affair with Martin Lowell? That’s what broke up his marriage to Jo. Reg only learned about it the night Annabelle died.”
“Martin Lowell? That can’t be true—there must be some mistake,” Teresa breathed.
“No mistake. Harry Lowell brought it up at Jo’s dinner party. Reg was livid. He’s admitted it now, but not until we played ring-around-the-roses a few times.”
“It can’t be true,” Teresa said again, her eyes enormous in her pinched face. “Why would Annabelle do such a thing?”
“I thought perhaps you could tell me.”
“She did take her mother’s death very hard,” Teresa said slowly. “Or it seemed so to me, but I’d only worked for her a few months and didn’t know her very well.” Bitterly, she added, “Although it seems I didn’t know her much better after five years, did I? Annabelle always made it such a point to stress honesty in business dealings—but it seems that didn’t apply to her personal life.” She looked up from her teacup. “You said there was someone else?”
“Plural. It seems that Annabelle had a relationship with a man called Lewis Finch, and with his son, Gordon.”
“Lewis Finch?
The
Lewis Finch?” Teresa repeated. “Are you sure?”
“Do you know him?”
“No, I … Only by reputation,” said Teresa, but she sounded uncertain.
“Were you aware that William Hammond disliked Finch?”
“But everyone admires Lewis Finch,” protested Teresa. “He’s done so much for the Island—I know Annabelle thought he was brilliant.”
“Did Annabelle talk about him to you?”
“Not in a personal way, but I knew she’d met him.”
“And his son, Gordon? Did she ever talk about him?”
“No, never. I didn’t even know Lewis Finch had a son.”
Gemma wondered if Annabelle had kept her own counsel out of necessity or if she’d enjoyed having secrets. She
said, “Annabelle spoke to Gordon Finch the night she died—he was the busker Reg Mortimer saw in the tunnel. This was just after she’d told Reg she was in love with someone else, and after they’d had a huge row over her affair with Martin Lowell. You can see this puts things in rather a bad light for Reg.”
Teresa started to rise, then closed her eyes and sat down again, looking quite white and ill. “I’ve been a bloody fool.”
“Why? What’s happened?” Gemma asked quickly.
Teresa opened her eyes and stared at Gemma as if realizing what she’d said. “It’s personal.… Reg never said—it’s nothing to do with your investigation.”
“Teresa, if this has something to do with Reg, you’re better off telling us now. You could make yourself an accessory if you’re protecting him out of some mistaken sense of loyalty.”
“No, I don’t know anything, honestly. It’s just …” She hesitated, then said in a rush, “Have you ever done something so stupid that you think you must have taken leave of your senses?”
Involuntarily, Gemma thought of dancing with Gordon Finch in the park. Had Teresa been as susceptible to Reg? “Why don’t you tell me about it?” she said gently.
“No, I …”
Teresa jumped as the phone rang, and after a glance at Gemma fumbled it off the hook. She listened, murmuring an occasional reply, then gently returned the phone to its cradle.
“That was Mr. Hammond. He’s requesting a meeting of the board tomorrow morning, at Martin Lowell’s insistence.”
“And this means—”
“They’ll decide who’s going to take over Annabelle’s job as managing director.”
“Is it between you and Reg, then?” asked Gemma.
“Unless William decides to take over again himself. Or they could bring someone in from outside.” Teresa reached
for a stack of papers, put them back, and looked about distractedly. “I’ve the financial reports to prepare.…”
Gemma leaned forward. “Teresa, you need to tell me what’s happened between you and Reg. You can’t judge what bearing it has on our investigation.”
Teresa shook her head firmly, but Gemma saw that the fair skin on her throat had suffused with color. “No, I can’t. I won’t. I’ve just been a silly cow, because I wanted to think I could offer some comfort—” She swallowed and her hands moved over the papers again. “But it wasn’t comfort he wanted. He wanted to get back at Annabelle, make it even, because he found out what she’d done. And I just happened to be convenient.”
“Teresa, did you sleep with Reg? Is that what you’re saying? If he confided in you—”
Teresa smiled. “Apparently, he hasn’t told me half as much as he’s told you. I can’t help you.” She rose. “I’ve the data to prepare for the financial reports, and it looks as though I’ll be putting together the marketing reports as well, since Reg has made himself scarce.”
Knowing she’d get no further at the moment, Gemma took a card from her handbag and placed it on Teresa’s desk. “You ring me if you want to talk, or if you think of anything you haven’t told me. Anytime, day or night, all right?”
When Teresa nodded, Gemma took her leave, but stood for a moment on the catwalk, looking down at the main floor of the warehouse. She thought about the relationships among the people who had come together in this building, bound by a web of concealments and half-truths that had just become exponentially more complicated. Because she knew something now she hadn’t known half an hour ago.
If her instincts served her right, Teresa Robbins was in love with Reg Mortimer, and Reg had taken full advantage of the fact. But to what purpose?
• • •
A
S
R
EG TIED HIS TIE IN
his dressing table mirror, he thought of Annabelle, of how he had liked to watch her when she was getting ready to go out. She had made up her face with such concentration, like an artist putting the finishing touches on a painting, but the end result had been almost invisible—she had simply been more beautiful.
She had been as self-absorbed as a grooming cat, and at the time he had found it amusing. But that detachment had carried over into other aspects of their relationship, and he wondered now how he had found it acceptable. Even in bed she had always seemed somehow removed from him, as if there were some part of her he could never reach. Had she been that way with the others, too?
The thought made him feel physically ill, and the sweat broke out again on his forehead. This morning when he left Teresa’s, he’d meant to go straight into work after coming home to shower and dress. But by the time he reached his building, he’d felt so unwell he collapsed on the sofa until the spasms in his stomach had subsided.
Everything in his life seemed to be crumbling beneath him, and it was all he could do to keep panic at bay. He couldn’t ask his parents for help—his father had bailed him out of difficulties once too often, and last year had cut him off altogether, making it clear he wouldn’t soften his position.
But if he could only find some way to hold off his creditors for a while longer … and if he could convince William to support his nomination as managing director to the members of the board, he might have some hope of survival.
And then there was Teresa. She at least believed in him, and he wondered how he could have failed to appreciate the virtues of such steady loyalty until now.
His phone rang, startling him. He crossed to the bedside table and picked it up.
It was Fiona, the Hammond’s receptionist, telling him that Miss Robbins had asked her to inform him that Mr. Hammond had called a meeting of the board for ten
o’clock tomorrow morning. When, his heart sinking, he asked why Teresa hadn’t rung him herself, Fiona replied awkwardly, “I’m sure I don’t know, sir,” and rang off.
Reg let the phone fall back into the cradle. Whatever the bloody hell had happened now, he wasn’t sure he had the bottle to face it.
I
N THE AFTERNOON OF THE SECOND
day of the bombings, Edwina found Lewis in his room in the barn, packing his bits of belongings into the old, battered suitcase. He straightened and faced her defiantly, expecting to be chastised for his disobedience, because when he’d begged permission that morning to go to London, she’d refused him
.
But instead she sat down gracefully on the room’s only chair, looking at him with such understanding that he was forced to turn away and stare out the window at the sparrows nesting under the eaves in the barn
.
“Lewis, you must not do this,” she said quietly. “I know how desperately worried you are, but the only thing you can do for your family is to stay where they can reach you.”
“But—what if … I can’t bear not knowing—”
“We don’t know how long the bombing will go on, and this is why they sent you away, to keep you safe. How would your mother feel if you went to London and were hurt or killed, and all this year had been for nought?”
He shook his head wordlessly, but found some unexpected comfort in the thought of his mother’s anger
.
“The East End is in chaos,” Edwina continued. “You know that—you’ve been listening to the reports on the wireless. And William’s parents confirmed what we’ve heard—they managed to ring through from Greenwich to tell us that the Hammond’s warehouse was not badly damaged. It’s quite possible that your family has been relocated, and in that case you’d not be able to find them. The only sensible thing to do is wait. I’m sure we’ll hear something soon.” He heard the chair legs creak as Edwina
stood, then felt the light touch of her hand on his shoulder. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
After a moment, he managed to nod and say, “All right,” but he still couldn’t bring himself to look at her
.
“You’re a sensible boy, Lewis,” Edwina said, giving his shoulder a brief squeeze. “I knew I could count on you.”
Lewis heard her go down the stairs, her booted steps as quick and precise as she was in everything, but he didn’t feel sensible at all. In his heart he knew he’d failed his family, left them to an unknown fate that he should have suffered with them, and that his safe and sensible retreat marked him as an outsider and a coward
.
T
HE HOUSE ON
S
TEBONDALE
S
TREET WAS
was hit by an incendiary bomb on the third night of the Blitz, but this Lewis didn’t learn until almost a week later, when he received a note in the post. The paper was much blotched and stained, but the neatly looped, convent-school handwriting was instantly recognizable as his mother’s
.
Dear Lewis
,
The house is gone but we are all right. The third night the bombers came a fire bomb hit right on top of the house but we had gone round to the McNeills in Chapel House Street and went down their Anderson shelter when the alarm sounded. So it was lucky for us wasn’t it? They have given us a flat in Islington for now with two other families; it’s not very clean but at least we have a place to lay our heads. I will write more soon remember I love you
.
Your loving mother
Lewis had gone every day to wait for the post at the bottom of the drive, and now he stood, staring at the tattered paper, until the tears blurred his vision and splashed onto the page. He knew that William and Edwina and Mr
.
Cuddy and even Cook were watching him anxiously from the house, as they had every day, but he couldn’t seem to move
.
After a bit, William came down to him, but Lewis found he couldn’t speak, either. He was forced to hand William the letter to read for himself
.
William read, squinting at the unfamiliar script, his lips moving silently. Then he looked up, a grin spreading across his face, and whooped and pounded Lewis on the back, shouting, “Hooray! Bloody hooray!” and after that it was all right
.