Chapter 80
EIGHTY
Quinn and Rhys were both in a somber mood as they headed back to the Lake District, no longer two friends giddy with the prospect of a few days of unexpected freedom, but historical detectives who needed to tie up loose ends.
They would stop by the police station to collect the bangle and earring that had been found at the bottom of the well, then visit Dinah Wilson at the retirement village.
She had agreed to see them, and Quinn hoped she might be able to fill in at least some of the blanks.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Honor and her horrific final moments, but didn’t think the bangle would show her anything she hadn’t already seen.
Honor’s story had come to an end when she had been tossed into the well, and Quinn didn’t care to relive her terror as she died.
Focused on the business side, as usual, Rhys lamented the future of the show and vented his own frustrations.
“The historical portion is weighty enough, but the modern-day component will fall flat if we can’t effectively bring this tragedy into the present.”
Quinn sighed in exasperation. “If you want to control the narrative, then you must rely on fictional accounts. I can only tell you what I see and offer up whatever ending I find. If that’s not good enough for your viewers, then perhaps we should leave this story untold.”
“I didn’t mean that,” Rhys instantly backpedaled. “But I do have to consider the ratings.”
“I understand, but these are people’s lives, Rhys. And if the Bellamys have living descendants, we owe them a duty of care.”
Rhys nodded. “We do, but they might want the story to be told. They cannot let that poor girl be forgotten.”
“First, let’s see what we can find out, shall we?”
They drove the rest of the way in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
Quinn experienced an acute pang of melancholy when they drove through the gates of the retirement village.
It didn’t resemble the community Phoebe had lived in, but the residents who were gardening, playing tennis, and walking in pairs or groups of threes made her miss Phoebe with an intensity she hadn’t felt since those first months.
It gladdened her heart that these people seemed to be enjoying an active and social retirement, but it also reminded her that, for each and every one of them, this was the final chapter in a life that might not have been newsworthy but was still precious and now so woefully short.
“Here we are,” Rhys said as he pulled up in front of a neat one-story cottage.
He stepped out, then popped the boot and took out a plastic cool box.
“Homemade napoleon,” he explained. “Katya would never forgive me if I showed up empty-handed. And this is so much better than store-bought cake.”
“You don’t bring me napoleon,” Quinn grumbled.
“That’s because I have the deepest respect for your arteries. That custard cream is all butter and sugar.”
“What did this nice lady do to you that you’re trying to hurry along her demise?”
“I just want her to experience a slice of heaven,” Rhys said and rang the bell.
The woman who opened the door was in her eighties, but despite her age her gaze was bright and her smile welcoming.
And she was surprisingly stylish. Dinah Wilson wore her gray hair long and loose, and her wraparound dress put Quinn in mind of the psychedelic patterns of the sixties.
It was all oranges, reds, blues, and greens, the motif a mosaic of vibrant color.
Dinah’s blue eyes were accented by expertly applied eyeliner, the ends winged, and she wore pearly pink lipstick.
She looked like one of the earliest Bond girls, now enjoying her golden years.
“Dr. Allenby,” she exclaimed, as if Rhys weren’t even there. “It is such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve watched every episode of Echoes from the Past. It’s one of my favorite programs.”
“Thank you. That’s very kind,” Quinn said.
“Please come in. Shall I pop the kettle on?”
“My wife made napoleon,” Rhys said and handed her the container.
“How very considerate,” Dinah Wilson replied. “I’m not much of a baker, but I do have a sweet tooth.”
“Don’t we all?” Rhys said and smiled broadly.
The next few minutes were spent preparing the tea, putting the squares of pastry onto a pretty plate, and setting up in the lounge. It was a warm, comfortable room full of books, colorful pottery, and amateur paintings.
“I always wanted to paint,” Dinah said when she followed the direction of Quinn’s gaze.
“But I never had the time. I made a promise to myself that I will do whatever I want from now on. And eat whatever makes me happy. And this makes me happy,” she said as she took a forkful of napoleon. “This is delicious.”
“I’ll tell Katya you liked it,” Rhys replied.
Once the small talk was truly out of the way, Dinah said, “So, you want to talk to me about the body in the well. I’m afraid I can’t help you. I don’t know who that is.”
“We have been able to identify the victim,” Rhys said.
“Victim? Are you suggesting the woman was murdered?”
“She was,” Quinn said, “her body thrown down the well by the killer.”
Dinah set down her cup and looked at Quinn, her gaze suddenly anxious. “Who was she, dear?”
“Honor. Honor Bellamy.”
Dinah shook her head. “Oh, no. That can’t be right.”
“Why do you think it can’t be Honor?” Rhys asked.
“Honor ran off to America with the Bellamys’ estate manager, Rory Sullivan.”
“What makes you say that?” Quinn asked carefully.
“Geneva told me.”
“How did you know her?”
Dinah stood and went to the faux fireplace.
She took a framed black-and-white photograph off the mantel and handed it to Quinn.
It was of a lovely little boy, aged five or six.
He wore a sailor suit with short pants. One knee was scraped above the dark knee socks he wore, and his shoes were a bit scuffed at the front.
He had tried to look serious for the photographer but couldn’t hold back the smile that threatened to split his round face.
The child had large light eyes, probably blue, and dark hair.
“Your son?” Quinn asked.
Dinah shook her head. “My husband, Kenny. Geneva was my mother-in-law.”
“And the name Wilson?” Quinn carefully asked. Perhaps Dinah had remarried.
“Kenny’s stepdad adopted him when he was five. Wilson was his name.”
“And Kenny’s real dad?” Rhys asked. “Was it Jesse Bellamy?”
No, Quinn wanted to cry out. It wasn’t Jesse. Kenny’s dad was Rory Sullivan. She could see the resemblance, especially in the boy’s smile.
Dinah shrugged. “Geneva never really talked to Kenny about her past. In those days, people were a lot more tight-lipped than they are today, especially when their reputation was less than sterling. Geneva only started to open up a few years before she died. It was as if she suddenly needed to talk and let out all the feelings she’d bottled up for decades.
Kenny wasn’t overly interested by that point, but I liked to listen to her stories.
And it brought her comfort to be able to finally share.
She told me about Bellamy Hall, about her wayward little sister, and about Rory.
I had never heard about him until then, but she had told Kenny that Rory was his father when he was old enough to understand. ”
“Did Geneva tell you about the New Year’s Eve party in 1923?” Quinn asked.
“She did. That was the day it all began to unravel for the Bellamys. Although, of course, what happened was a culmination of bad decisions followed by unimaginable tragedy.”
“What happened?” Rhys said. He was leaning forward, his eagerness on full display.
“Geneva’s father, Douglas Bellamy, was very ill, and he took a turn for the worse after the party broke up.
Geneva and his nurse remained by his side, but there was nothing they could do.
He passed in the early hours of the new year.
Geneva thought her sister couldn’t bear to watch their father die, but, when she went to find her later that morning, she discovered that Honor had gone.
Her party dress was draped across a chair, her shoes were beneath the bed, and her headband was on the vanity.
Some of her clothes were missing, and she had even taken Geneva’s ring.
It had been given to her by Kenny’s father.
The scoundrel,” Dinah said with feeling.
“It seems he was romancing both the Bellamy girls. Geneva turned him down, so Honor took her place. But not before he got Geneva up the duff.”
“Did Rory know he had a son?” Quinn asked.
Dinah shook her head. “Geneva never told him she was pregnant. She didn’t find out until after he’d gone.”
“Did anyone see Honor go?” Rhys inquired.
“I don’t believe so, but it must have been chaos.
The party had just ended, the guests were departing, there was cleaning and washing up to be done, and the servants must have been exhausted.
They wouldn’t have noticed her slipping out before the sun was even up.
But she left a note,” Dinah hurried to explain.
“She said she loved Rory and they were going to make a go of it in America. Geneva hoped Honor would write once they got settled, but she never heard from her sister again. It broke her heart.” Dinah’s face clouded as the implications of that took on a new meaning.
“Are you sure it was Honor in the well?” she asked again. “How could it be?”
“Yes, I am sure,” Quinn said softly. “Honor did not run off to America. She was murdered in the early hours of the new year.”
“Who by? Rory?”
“No. Rose.”
“Her cousin?” Dinah exclaimed. “But why would Rose hurt Honor?”
“Did Geneva tell you about Jesse?”
Dinah nodded. “She never did understand why he suddenly took off. One moment they were announcing their engagement, and the next he had left without a word of explanation.”