The Last Camellia: A Novel (24 page)

I shook my head. “He’s not usually that way. Your visit set him off. I wish I knew why.”

Desmond stood up and brushed the crumbs off his uniform, before polishing off the rest of the scone. “Any chance a tired soldier can get a hot breakfast?”

“Mr. Beardsley always serves breakfast at eight sharp.”

“Good old Beardsley,” he said with a smile. “Always the same, day after day. But wouldn’t you like to see him lighten up a little?”

“Well, I—”

“Schedules and traditions, traditions and schedules.” He shook his head. “It’s not for me.”

I searched his face. “You’re a different sort of person, aren’t you? You’re not like them.”

“I’m not,” he said.

A noise emanated from beyond the window, which had been left propped open. Desmond and I exchanged a cautious glance.

“Probably your father on the terrace,” I said. “He sometimes reads the newspaper there before coming down for breakfast.” I paused for a moment. “Are you ready to see him?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be.”

We walked to the door, but before I opened it, I turned back to Desmond. “About Abbott,” I said. “Could you try to talk to him?”

“I’ll certainly try,” he replied. “But I have one bridge to cross first, and I’m not sure it’s going to be easy.”

“Come on,” I said. “I’ll go with you.”

Addison

W
as Sean here in the foyer? I searched the first floor, then tiptoed to the front door, peering out the side window. I breathed a sigh of relief at the absence of a car parked in the driveway. No one; my ears were playing tricks on me. I took a step back from the window, then paused when I heard a car approaching. A taxi.

An older man, in his sixties, stepped out of the car, which is when I remembered Nicholas Livingston’s visit.

“Hello,” I said, walking outside, grateful for his presence.

“Addison,” he said. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Nicholas Livingston.” He looked up at the old manor quietly, as if the sight had momentarily stunned him. “It’s just as I remembered it.”

I suppose the manor would always be untouched by time. Years could pass. Mortar could crumble. Stone could crack in jagged lines. But it would, more or less, remain the same.

He eyed a pair of wood pigeons pecking at one of the house’s cornices. “All these years,” he said. “I didn’t think the old house would have this effect on me. The bird calls still sound as lonely as I felt back then.”

“You might be interested to know that the place will be changing a bit soon,” I said. “My in-laws have a remodel in store.” I looked out to the gardens, still wondering how Rex could sign off on what appeared to be the demolition of the camellia orchard to make way for a golf course. “Well, at least as far as the house is concerned.”

Behind him, the cab driver stood staring at the stone lions near the entryway. His body language indicated that he wouldn’t step a foot farther. I wondered if he shared the belief of the woman in town that the house was cursed. “Thanks,” Nicholas said, tucking a bill into his hand. He drove off quickly, in good-riddance fashion.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” he said, looking around him as if the trees might have ears. “Is there a place we can go to talk . . . privately?”

I nodded, leading him inside the house. “The last time I was inside the manor, I was thirteen,” he said, standing in the foyer. “I never came home after boarding school. I went straight to university.”

“I don’t understand,” I said. “Why would you stay away so long?”

His hair had grayed with age. The baby cheeks depicted in the photographs now looked distinguished. And yet, unlike Lord Livingston in the photos I’d seen, the edges of his face appeared gentler, softer. Together, we walked to the parlor and sat on the sofa near the side windows that looked out to the orchard. “There were too many sad memories here,” he said. “And after Katherine married and Abbott’s condition worsened, I guess there wasn’t much for me here anymore. Everything changed.”

“What do you mean about Abbott’s
condition
?”

He nodded gravely. “Abbott came down with a fever in 1940. The doctors said it was meningitis. It seemed that he made a full recovery, but the fever weakened his heart. He was never the same. And as he got older, he worsened. By the time I went to university, he was bedridden.”

“How terrible,” I said. “So your father looked after him?”

“No,” he said. “Father died in 1963. Mrs. Dilloway cared for him after that, until his death last year.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“I tried to visit Abbott so many times, but Mrs. Dilloway claimed that the family’s presence wouldn’t be good for his nerves.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I didn’t either,” he said. “So one day, late in the 1970s, when my daughter was ten, my wife and I made a visit. We thought it was only right for Abbott to finally meet his niece. Mrs. Dilloway wasn’t here when we arrived, and we found Abbott sitting out on the terrace in a wheelchair. He looked terrible, like a hollowed-out version of himself. I’ll never forget his face, so thin and pale. He appeared much older than his years.” He retrieved a handkerchief from his shirt pocket. “He didn’t recognize me, not at first. But then his face formed a smile, and he”—Nicholas paused to dab his eyes—“he said, I’ll never forget it, he said, ‘Brother?’

“We talked for a while,” Nicholas continued. “He told me something that I haven’t been able to get out of my head. Of course, I’m not sure how much of it was the illness talking, but . . .”

“What did he say?”

Nicholas looked over his shoulder. “He said that Mum was murdered.”

“But he was only a young boy then,” I said. “How could he have known?”

“To be honest,” Nicholas said, “I thought his illness had softened his mind. And yet, he kept saying that someone was responsible and they’d have to pay. He said that over and over again.”

“Who was that someone?”

“Well, I don’t know, exactly, but I felt compelled to look into the matter further,” he said. “I hired an attorney. I tried to get the case reopened, to get Mother’s autopsy report analyzed by a specialist, but the housekeeper, Mrs. Dilloway, had it sealed.”

“I know,” I said. “I checked the records myself. But do you have any idea why she would do that?”

“At the time, her petition stated that she was protecting my mother’s dignity. She claimed that some of the village men had been needlessly looking at the autopsy photos of her nude body.” Nicholas shuddered. “But I don’t think that was the case at all. The only obvious reason is that she wanted to hide something,” he said. “When Katherine told me about the way she loved Father, I began to wonder if there was more to the story than any of us could ever know.”

I gasped. “She loved him?”

Nicholas sighed. “Yes. Of course, we didn’t know it at the time, but according to Katherine, Mrs. Dilloway loved him even when Mum was alive.”

“Well, think what you will about her,” I said, “but she’s in the hospital now. She had a stroke last night.”

“Oh,” he said, a little stunned. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He rose and walked to the window, running his hand along the sill. “I wanted to come here once more to see if I missed something. For Mother. Your family will be making changes here, as you’ve indicated, and before that happens, I want to be certain.”

“I’m sure my in-laws won’t mind if you want to have a look around,” I said.

“Thank you,” he said. “I didn’t know if they’d be happy with my little investigation, which is why I hired a pair of private investigators.”

“Private investigators?”

“I hope you’ll forgive me,” he said. “It wasn’t you they were spying on. I only wanted to know what the plans were for the property and poke about the orchard, to see if they could find anything of interest in the carriage house.”

“So that’s who was down there that day,” I muttered.

I followed him to the windows looking out to the garden. “Then I don’t have to tell you about the golf course, since you already know.”

He looked momentarily confused, but then his eyes met the view from the windows leading out to the terrace. “The orchard!” he cried. “Mum would be so happy that it’s just as she left it. Well, a bit overgrown now, but still grand.”

“Yes,” I said. “Mr. Livingston, there’s something I’d like to show you. In the drawing room.”

I handed him the file of news clippings about the women who had gone missing, then I showed him the map of the gardens that I’d annotated with the sticky notes.

“What is this?” he asked.

I picked up his mother’s camellia book, opening it to the Petelo camellia. “Have you seen this before?”

His eyes got misty. “Yes,” he said. “I remember the day that Flora found it.”

“Your nanny?”

“Yes,” he said, turning to the file of news clippings. “When she disappeared, we feared the worst. She dropped off the face of the earth, it seemed. Didn’t even say good-bye to us.” He studied the page in the book, lost in thought. “Mum loved her camellias. I can still see her out there, walking through the orchard, humming quietly to herself. It reminded her of her beloved Charleston.”

“Mr. Livingston,” I said, “I believe your mother may have been trying to solve a mystery before her death.” I pointed to the numeric code at the top right corner of the page. “I’ve traced these numbers to the dates the women went missing. I think your mother had a hunch that something very dark was happening right here at the manor. Can you remember anything? Any small detail that might help shed light on what may have happened to these women?”

“Well,” he said, “my investigators did find something down in the orchard.”

We walked outside, where a couple stood by a blue car in the driveway. The woman, with bobbed blond hair, took off her sunglasses and smiled.

“You,” I said. “You were the ones who saved me in the park.”

“Yes,” the man said. “I’m James and this is Mira. We work for Mr. Livingston. It was purely a coincidence that we ran into you in town. We recognized you, from the day down by the carriage house. I’m sorry about that. We didn’t mean to frighten you.”

“It’s all right,” I said. “I’m just glad it was you and not . . .”

“I remembered your face,” he continued. “So when I noticed that man walking behind you in the park, we followed too.”

“I’m so glad you did,” I said.

“Did they catch him?”

“No,” I replied. “But they will. I know they will.”

I pointed at the blue convertible in the driveway, remembering the mysterious woman who had stopped to talk to Rex on the day we arrived. “You were here,” I said, looking at her curiously. “You spoke to my husband. He said you were a courier.”

“Oh that,” she said. “Yes.”

Nicholas Livingston pointed to the orchard. “We’ll explain everything.”

I nodded, turning to the camellias in the distance. “OK, let’s head down there before the rain rolls in.”

“Your mother kept quite a garden,” I said to Nicholas. “I’m a garden designer, and I can tell you, I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yes,” he said, “she was very proud of her collection. There are some rare varieties here. At least, there used to be.”

I pulled out the page torn from the camellia book. “This one,” I said. “It’s called a Middlebury Pink. Do you know it?”

Nicholas took the page in his hand. “I remember it,” he said. “It only bloomed once, after Mother’s death.” He shook his head. “She never even got to see its flowers.”

“Where is it?” I said, pointing to the place in the garden where, according to the numeric code, it should have been. All that remained was a sunken spot in the soil.

His eyes lit up as if he’d been struck with a sudden memory. “Over here,” he said, pointing to the carriage house. “If it’s the one I’m remembering, I believe Father had it moved. After Mother’s death, he had reason to believe that someone was trying to steal it. Flower thieves. He had it moved back here, behind the carriage house.” We walked behind the old outbuilding, but where the tree might have stood, only a stump remained, and an old one at that.

“Such a shame,” I said, sinking down onto the mossy ground, heavy with disappointment.

James motioned to Nicholas from the side of the carriage house. “Would you like to see what we found?”

I followed them to the door. “It’s locked,” I said, tugging at the rusty lock.

James smiled. “My specialty. Just give me a second.” In a moment, he had pried the padlock from the latch on the door, and he pushed it open.

Mira and I followed the men inside.

“Looks like an old garden shed,” I said.

Mira and James exchanged glances. “See that little door?” James said.

I nodded.

James opened the door to reveal a small room. A few shovels and rakes lay against the wall, where a crude message appeared to have been hand-painted in dark ink. I walked closer, peering into the little room, and read the words: “For the flowers shall be anointed with her blood, and spring forth beauty.”

“What is this?”

Mira looked at James again. “Miss Sinclair,” she said turning to look at me, “we think it was painted in blood.”

“We’re filing a police report,” James said in the driveway after we’d walked back to the house. “I think there’s sufficient evidence to relaunch an investigation into Lady Anna Livingston’s death.” He clutched the files I’d given him, with the map of the gardens. “And with your help, Addison, I think we may have something solid.”

“Keep in touch,” I said as he and Mira climbed into the car.