Chapter 53 Roddy #2
It is midnight in Brookbank. She should be sleeping, recovering from her concussion. He snaps a photo of the grounds and sends it back.
I’m on the case. Go to bed. I’ll text if I have news.
Roddy is a bucket of nerves as he knocks on the beautiful forest green door.
It is adorned with a plain willow Christmas wreath woven with tufts of blue spruce.
A man pulls open the door with a flourish, a smile on his face as if he is expecting someone.
He is tall, with tousled grey hair and an attractive two-day stubble on his jaw.
When he sees Roddy his face drops, almost comically. He stares.
Roddy stares back. A strange feeling floats up inside him; a sort of supreme ease. It’s as if he already knows this man, so elegantly dressed, who now begins to smile again. The man’s smile widens while his eyebrows furrow so that he appears happily confused. ‘Yes?’
‘Hello. Are you Francis Fitzhenry?’
‘Yes.’
‘You … er … you don’t know me, but if you’d just give me five minutes, I wanted to talk to you about something important.’
The man tips his head on the side, as if slightly amused, and Roddy, who has always liked a man with a sense of humour, feels his heart give a flip.
‘All right.’ Francis Fitzhenry makes no move to invite Roddy in.
‘I wanted to talk to you about Dorothea Stewart.’
The man’s face drains of colour, so that Roddy feels compelled to rush on, panicked the door might shut in his face. ‘I think I know her whereabouts.’
Francis opens his mouth, then closes it again.
‘I’m Roddy, by the way. I’m a friend of hers.’ He holds out his hand.
After a moment Francis looks down. He grasps Roddy’s outstretched hand in both of his and simply holds it. His hands are warm.
Eventually Francis says, ‘Do come in. I …’ But he doesn’t finish the sentence, and they stand, motionless—Roddy’s hand still clasped—regarding each other with an odd sense of recognition.
‘Come in,’ whispers Francis, gesturing down the hall towards a living room. ‘Please, come in, by the fire.’
Roddy lets himself be ushered. Francis hangs Roddy’s puffer jacket on a hook next to a smart rain jacket and a navy patterned scarf that looks to be the softest cashmere.
He finds himself in an exquisite sitting room.
Velvet sofas are scattered with linen cushions in various checks and stripes and florals.
Nothing matches, but it’s somehow harmonious.
Woollen throws are over the arms of plush chairs, and lamps—one shaped like a hare and the other like a hound—throw a golden light of supreme cosiness.
‘Sit, sit,’ says Francis, his face a picture of consternation.
Roddy sits and Francis remains standing. He says, ‘Dorothea? You know her?’
‘I think I do. She goes by another name.’ Roddy hesitates, knowing he must tread carefully.
‘Are you … Australian?’ asks Francis, frowning.
Roddy nods.
‘Is she in Australia?’
He nods again.
‘Extraordinary,’ Francis whispers. ‘And Louis? He’s there too?’
Roddy grimaces. ‘I’m sorry, but he passed away.’
Francis deflates, a whooshing noise coming from him as he slumps onto the sofa. He presses his fist gently to his mouth. ‘When?’
‘Thirty years ago. Cancer. I’m sorry.’
Francis nods slowly. ‘Are you sure it’s them?’
‘Pretty sure. They arrived in Australia in 1975 from England. We found some papers.’
‘What has Dorothea told you?’
Roddy falters as Francis holds his gaze and smiles encouragingly.
‘Nothing. And I know she is still wanted by police here, so I’m mindful of that because I don’t want her to be arrested.’
Francis nods. ‘And have you asked her about her … life here? Her identity? Any of it?’
‘No,’ says Roddy, hesitating. He has no firm idea how to proceed, but his intuition tells him he should trust Francis Fitzhenry.
‘She’s quite sick and unable to communicate just now, but we found some letters she wrote to you but never sent, so then we did some digging.
That’s how we know about you … but, we haven’t been able to ask her. ’
‘We?’ Francis cocks his head.
‘Her granddaughter, Lottie.’
‘Oh?’
‘Her father was the man we think was Louis.’
Francis stares, then nods and looks away.
‘She …’ Roddy feels a precarious sense of diving in. ‘Lottie’s quite unsure about it all. She thinks she might be related to you and your family. But we have so little information, you see.’
‘Well, if she’s Louis’s daughter, she has a greater claim to this place than I do.’
Roddy says nothing although the statement is confusing. He senses a deep pain in Francis and feels a reluctance to probe his traumatic past, but the other man seems to shrug off the heaviness of the moment.
‘You said Dorothea wrote me letters?’
‘Hundreds of them. But it seems she never sent them.’
Francis stares over Roddy’s shoulder with a look of bewilderment. After a moment he says, ‘I need the whole story, if you have time. Forgive my manners. What can I get you? Tea? Coffee? Whisky? Never too early at Christmas time, is it?’
‘Er, tea would be lovely.’ Roddy feels supremely underdressed in his old jeans in the house of this dazzling man.
‘Tea, then. Wonderful.’ They stand at the same time, and Roddy feels a little sick again. His face heats up. ‘Thank you … Lord Fitzhenry,’ he mumbles.
‘Francis. Please. Though my friends call me Frankie. I answer to both.’ The man continues to stare, then gives a tiny shake of his head. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I’ll just pop the kettle on.’
Francis disappears and Roddy lets his eyes roam the beautiful room.
There are piles of coffee table books, oil paintings of landscapes and modern paintings of colourful abstract forms. A portrait of a woman and a child in a deep ornate gilt frame hangs beside the fireplace.
An unusual mannequin stands in the corner and seems to be formed from a coloured resin.
A swathe of red silk fabric hangs over one of her shoulders.
Out the rear window, a kitchen garden is bordered by rows of lavender bushes still with dead heads, so that the effect is a once magnificent garden in slight decay.
Roddy sits and rearranges several cushions.
The sofa feels like it is trying to swallow him and he reminds himself that it is possible Francis Fitzhenry wants Phyllida gaoled for the murder of his father.
He should be on guard, but nothing about being in the room feels threatening.
Francis emerges from the hallway. ‘Here we are.’ He removes the teapot from the tray and begins to set out the cups and saucers. ‘I’ll be mother, shall I?’
Roddy picks up his teacup, noting the finely crafted porcelain.
Was it Samuel Alcock? The rich colours and the gothic-inspired motifs make him think so, but he can hardly check for a marking.
He moves his eyes to the teapot. Angular handle, elongated spout, finial on the lid.
Good lord, it was an 1850s complete set.
He feels his heart give another little leap.
Francis smiles. ‘All right?’
‘Yes, thanks. I was just admiring your tea set.’ Roddy’s eyes rest on Francis’s hand as he sets down the exquisite milk jug. He has long fingers. Smooth artist’s hands.
‘Now,’ says Francis, giving Roddy a look that conveys curiosity, gratitude and a desperate longing for information, all at once, ‘tell me everything. Really, I want to know everything. In your own time. I’m so glad you’re here.’
Roddy has the feeling of being swept into an embrace.
He hardly knows where to start. ‘I’m convinced my friend is your Dorothea, but, as I said, I don’t want to get her into trouble.
She’s a wonderful lady. She could never harm anyone, let alone …
murder someone.’ He hesitates, because the man’s gaze is so intense.
‘I mean, I know she’s accused of killing your father and I am very sorry to accost you like this without notice, knowing so little about it all, but’—he gives a deep sigh—‘it seems to me the police have got the wrong end of the stick.’
Francis sighs. ‘I know, my friend,’ he says sadly. ‘I know that better than anyone. Dorothea didn’t do it.’
Roddy stares at him, uncomprehending. ‘But … if she didn’t do it, why did she run?’