‘I do,’ I said. ‘He’s Alexander Bray, who fell off the cliff forty years ago, and he’s been missing ever since.’
Mrs Hale clutched my arm tightly. ‘That’s impossible,’ she croaked.
‘He lost his memory.’ I tried to release her grip on my arm, but she was too strong. ‘But listen, I need to find him. He’s gone off somewhere, and he’s confused enough as it is.’
‘But … but …’ Mrs Hale opened and closed her mouth
several times. ‘Has he said anything? About … about the past?’
‘Not much. Not yet.’ I frowned at her. ‘What do you mean, anyway?’
‘Nothing,’ she said quickly. ‘I was just wondering. Goodness … what a shock. What an utter shock.’
And then a memory of this morning slivered back to me. ‘Earlier, in the kitchen,’ I began, ‘you mentioned Robert Carver. You said the reason your father was upset was the whole Robert Carver business.’
‘Did I say that?’ She tucked an escaping strand of hair back behind her ear. ‘I was in such a state, I’d no idea what I was saying. He’d been awake all night, you see, yelling the place down about ghosts and so on.’
‘But Robert Carver,’ I insisted. ‘You knew him, didn’t you?’
She nodded. ‘He was Lizzie’s beau, for a few months. He became … part of the family, almost. He was wonderful. I was quite in love with him, you see. He had no idea of course; I was only a child to him.’
‘And then he was arrested for murder,’ I said.
She looked at me sharply, and nodded. ‘It was such a shock. For me.’
There was a strange cadence to the way she’d said that, and I peered at her. ‘You thought he was innocent, then?’
‘Of course I did,’ she murmured. ‘Of course I did.’
I looked up and down the hill. ‘Dockie will remember – Mr Bray, I mean. Now his memory’s returned, he’ll be able to tell us who pushed him off the cliff.’
‘Oh, Lord …’ Mrs Hale put a hand to her eyes. ‘He will, he will.’
It was such a shock
, she’d said.
For me
.
For me
. And an idea crept like a thief into my mind.
‘You know, don’t you?’ I said. ‘You know who tried to kill Mr Bray, and it wasn’t Robert. Robert Carver was innocent.’
She grasped my sleeve. Urgently, she said, ‘I didn’t know at the time. Not for years afterwards. I mean, I believed he hadn’t done it, but I had no idea of the truth. I wouldn’t have let him die in prison, Rosie. You must understand that. By the time I found out, it was all too late.’
I faced her, my breath tight in my lungs. ‘
Then who was it?
’
She sniffed and, instead of answering, turned round. I followed her gaze; she was looking towards the Bella Vista, at the ground-floor window.
And there, looking out at us, his head shaking uncontrollably, was her father, Dr Feathers.
‘No,’ I said. ‘No.’
Mrs Hale was still looking at her father. ‘You must tell him, Rosie, you must tell Mr Bray that it was an accident; it was such an awful accident. He never meant it to happen.’
I watched him too, resting on his stick, his head wobbling anxiously. ‘Robert died in prison,’ I said in a croak. ‘And your father let that happen.’
‘I didn’t know, I swear I didn’t know, not until after the shell-shock, when he was in hospital. And what was I to do then? Betray him, after twenty years?’
‘But Robert died.’ Sorrow tugged at my throat. ‘He died.’
Mrs Hale turned back to me, words spilling over themselves as if, now that the dam had burst, there was no way of keeping them in. ‘He was petrified, you see. My father, I mean. The next day, the day after Mr Bray went missing,
the police came round to ask us if we’d seen anything, and he told them he’d seen them walking up towards the cliff together – the two cousins, that is.’
‘Mrs Bray told me there’d been two witnesses,’ I said softly. ‘That’s what made them arrest Robert.’
‘The other witness, that was Lizzie,’ said Mrs Hale, and there she was, behind her father, holding on to the back of his chair, large and square and beetle-browed.
‘You mean …?’ I stared at Mrs Hale’s sister. ‘She lied to the police? I thought he was her beau.’
Mrs Hale ran a hand through her straggling hair. ‘He broke her heart. She’d already been heartbroken once, and she couldn’t bear it a second time. He never knew what a vengeful streak she had in her; he thought she was sweet, docile. That night, she was furious with him. Wanted to hurt him as he’d hurt her. She looked out of the window and saw our father outside, talking to Mr Bray. By the time the police came to interview us, she’d already spoken to Father, and he’d convinced her it was Robert she’d seen instead. She didn’t lie on purpose, but I suppose it was … convenient for her, to think that. It’s one of the reasons we don’t get on now.’
‘This is …’ I was inarticulate with rage and injustice. Now I saw what had made Dockie take this journey, across sea and land, all the way back to Castaway House. ‘He’s got away with it. For years.’
‘No, Rosie, not at all.’ She shook her head firmly. ‘Not at all. Mother found out what had happened, you see, and she left him for the Quakers. Then there was the bomb during the war, and the news of Anthony being killed, and of course his business had been failing before that … No,
you mustn’t think he got away with it. In fact, it’s almost as if he’s been cursed, for years. We all have, actually.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ I said.
‘The sins of the fathers …’ She shrugged. ‘You will at least try to explain, won’t you? He can’t go to prison now. He hasn’t much longer left, anyway.’
I looked at Dr Feathers in the window. As he saw me, he attempted to smile, and raised one wavering arm in a salute.
‘I need to find him first,’ I said. ‘Mr Bray. I don’t know where he is.’
She pointed. ‘I saw him go towards the cliff top.’
‘What?’ I whirled away from her.
‘It’s only dangerous if you go too close to the edge,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t do that, would he?’
‘I don’t know.’ I began marching up the hill. A few paces on I turned, and looked back. Mrs Hale was still staring after me, clutching her hands to her chest. I smiled at her and called down, ‘I’m sure everything’ll be all right.’
She nodded uncertainly. I waved at her, and then continued upwards.
The sun streamed into my eyes as I walked. I passed a woman wheeling a pram up the hill, bent double with the effort, overheated in her autumn coat and headscarf. The squeak of the pram’s wheels was the only nearby sound, except for the faint squawking of gulls.
I crossed over to the cliff-top path that wound beside the fences of the bungalows. Hard ridges had formed from the mud churned up in last week’s storm. As I puffed my way upwards, the sky blue and brilliant above me, I saw a dark figure beyond the path, standing right on the
very edge of the cliff, looking down to the crashing waves below.
‘Dockie!’ I called, but my voice was whipped back into my mouth by the breeze sifting over the cliff. I picked up my pace, passing the glassy-eyed bungalows. A line of washing flapped; flags of terry-cloth nappies and a cream-coloured blanket, doubling over itself in the wind. A low table held a jug with remnants of lemonade; a dead wasp floated on its surface while others foolishly buzzed about the sticky rim.
I drew level with him; he was facing the sea, his arms by his sides, leaning into the wind to hold him upright. ‘Dockie,’ I gasped, ‘please come back from there.’
He turned, his red eyes leaking tears. ‘I remember,’ he said hoarsely. ‘I remember everything.’
‘I know. I know about Robert Carver. But listen, come back from there. It’s dangerous.’
He remained where he was. ‘The story in the newspapers,’ he croaked. ‘The story Frank hid from me; they arrested him for my murder. My cousin. My friend. Arrested him, and he died in prison.’
‘Dockie …’
‘All these years, Rosie. Can you imagine? All these years I willingly let my memory rust away. Oh, Frank played his part all right. My head injury was helpful. But I could have known, if I’d searched hard enough inside myself. I could have brought it to the surface, but I thought only of myself. It never occurred to me that an injustice may have taken place.’
I saw he wasn’t going to budge an inch, so I took a few steps closer towards him.
He shook his newly shorn head, eyes glinting. ‘It was
him
.’ He pointed a finger back towards the house. ‘The doctor. He was the agent of both our destructions.’
I thought of what Mrs Hale had wanted me to say. ‘Perhaps it was an accident,’ I said quietly.
He narrowed his eyes. ‘I feel as if a curtain has been pulled back across my mind. I see it all.’
I took another step closer to the edge. Below me, the rocks lurked with ragged jaws. ‘What do you see?’ I said.
‘A party. Me, drunk and unhappy. Maudlin, self-pitying. I lean on the rail, outside the house, and
he
comes up the road. Never liked me, you know. Pretends to all right, but underneath considers me an idle good-for-nothing.’
He breathed heavily, and I took one more step and held on to his wrist, my heart beating fast now as the base of the cliff loomed into view. ‘Go on.’
‘He smells of drink. Must speak to me most urgently. Asks if we may take a walk. As we climb, tells me that my wife and my cousin are … that I am being made a cuckold of. His duty to inform me of the fact.’
The breeze was stronger out here on the edge of the cliff; a gull swooped nearby, calling plaintively, and I ducked out of instinct. Dockie appeared to notice nothing, except for what was occurring forty years in the past.
‘I’ll have none of that. Not Robert. Not my cousin, my friend. Oh yes. He insists. His eyes a flash in the lightning. His beard dripping rain. The storm curdles my anger. I shout. I curse. You worthless worm, you care nothing for me! You care for nobody but yourself. I know … I know …’
And now I too was in the past, as thunder raked the sky
and two men stood on a cliff top, drunk with rage. ‘What?’ I whispered. ‘What?’
‘
I know what you did
. You killed Gina Scott, and you allowed me to take the blame.’
I paused. ‘Who’s Gina Scott?’
Dockie narrowed his red-rimmed eyes. ‘I always suspected. Killed more patients than you saved, that’s what I’ve always thought. You were treating her for sleeplessness, prescribed her Veronal. You wrote the dosage down wrongly, didn’t you, and she died. Then you spread the rumour she was having a baby, so her poor parents would imagine it had been suicide. And everyone … everyone would think it was my fault.’
‘Oh, Dockie.’ I gripped his arm tightly. If he fell now, so would I.
‘My collar, grasped.’ Dockie put a hand to the shoulder of my dress, gripping it hard. ‘Shakes me like a dog. Ungrateful little boy. I’ve only ever tried to help. We dance at the edge, like this, just like this.’
My toes curled on a daisy that grew at the edge of the cliff. Marvellous, that this yellow-hearted dash of life could thrive on such a bitter spot. ‘Put me down, Dockie. Please, put me down.’
‘And then his hands at my chest, the ground disappears and I fly through the air.’ He lifted his other arm high, raising his head. ‘Still holding my umbrella, I was. Exhilarating, beautiful. Alive.’
The wind buffeted my hair around my face. Far below, I could hear the sea calling me.
I’m waiting
, it hissed as it coursed around the rocks.
Come, come, come
.
Dockie swayed on the edge of the cliff as he spoke, as
if in a dream. ‘The sea and the stones, pounding me, pounding me. I struggle, I drift; and then later, much later, asleep and awake, with the constant motion of the sea. They argue over whether to throw me back or save me. A foul smell from my head, like fish guts and stale beer. My clothes soaked through with the blood and the seawater; cut from me. Everything taken, except for a photograph. It’s worthless, let him keep it. It’s ruined, anyway. I must never tell a soul who picked me up, or they will rip me from throat to groin.’
‘Dockie!’ I shouted in his face, as fragments of earth under my feet crumbled sixty feet down to the sea. ‘Come back, Dockie … Alec.’
His eyes found mine. ‘Huh?’
I felt time swing slowly back to the present. I spoke as firmly as I could. ‘Put me down, Alec. Put me down.’
He frowned, confused, but his grip on my shoulder relaxed and I was able to take a step back away from the edge.
‘Come with me.’ I held out my hand.
He looked at me, and then, hesitantly, he grasped my hand and slowly, slowly, I led him back to the path. As my feet felt the solid ridges of the hardened mud, my legs wobbled and gave way, and I sank to the ground beside the bungalow fences, shaking as uncontrollably as Dr Feathers.
Dockie looked down at me. ‘Rosie,’ he murmured. He put his own hand out towards me. ‘Dear Rosie.’
I grasped his weathered fingers and allowed him to pull me back to standing. ‘My dear girl,’ Dockie was saying. ‘My dear, dear girl.’
I took a few deep gulps of sweet air. I looked up at him and said, ‘Your wife. She’s not in Paris.’
He stared at me. ‘Where is she?’
I pointed back the way I had come. ‘She’s at Castaway House.’
He put a hand to his chin as he stared towards the brow of the hill. ‘She is?’
I nodded. ‘She’s waiting for you there.’
He looked down at himself. ‘But I can’t.’ He glanced at me, terrified. ‘I cannot see her like this.’
I put a hand to his sleeve. ‘You look fine. Honestly.’
He touched his short hair, attempted to smooth it down, although the wind blew it back into tufts. ‘Will she forgive me, Rosie? I have been gone so long.’
‘I think …’ I shrugged. ‘I suppose you’ll have some talking to do.’
He took a step along the path and I followed him, matching his pace with mine. Dockie put a hand into his pocket and brought something out, worrying it over and over in his fingers as we walked. ‘She must forgive me,’ he murmured. ‘She must.’
I looked down and saw that he was rubbing a small seashell, twisting it back and forth in his hand. ‘You had that before,’ I said. ‘When you were turning out your pockets in the hallway, that first day I met you.’
‘I have no idea if it is the same one, even.’ He smiled to himself. ‘My talisman. My good-luck charm. My Clara.’