CHAPTER 8 #2
It’s turned into a surprisingly sunny afternoon after a grey start, so I grab my jacket and venture outside, keeping an eye out for a shed.
I haven’t really had the chance to explore the grounds yet, even though my memory of that summer is still clear in my mind.
I remember how much I’d loved the fact Dorothea had her very own wood.
It felt magical. Harry and I had spent hours lying on a blanket beneath the canopy of leaves, talking about books and music and films, content that we wouldn’t be disturbed.
I get that queasy pull in the pit of my stomach.
I feel guilty that Dorothea had to die for me to get all this.
I feel guilty that I am the one to benefit, and not my sister.
I feel guilty that I could be happy when my mum never got the chance.
And now, learning that Dorothea was murdered makes me feel even more uneasy.
Ever since the visit from the police earlier this week, I can’t stop thinking about those empty box files, imagining someone rifling through them.
I wonder why they didn’t empty the one with my name on it.
Were they disturbed? Was it the night of the fire?
I cross the lawn – fluffy-edged but otherwise neat – until I reach the path between the trees.
It feels like yesterday when I last stepped into the dark undergrowth.
The wood is smaller and less dense than I remember.
If I recall correctly, the path takes you right to the edge of the woods where a six-foot fence separates it from a farmer’s field.
The only access to the woods is through Dorothea’s garden.
I trudge along the path, past huge oaks and pines, light flickering between the leaves.
It’s colder here, without the full force of the sun, and I pause to do up my bomber jacket.
I breathe in deeply, all the worries and fears leaving me just like they did back then every time I came here.
I can almost hear Harry’s laugh and my mum calling us in for tea.
I wonder what Harry is up to now. I once tried to find him on social media but there was no trace of him and I’d been surprised by how disappointed I’d felt.
The path is more overgrown than it was the last time I was here.
I take a left off the main path, stepping carefully over large roots and fallen branches.
I keep thinking of Jackie’s mention of children.
Josh and I have talked about marriage and kids over the years, but he still hasn’t proposed even though we’ve been together so long.
Both of us have trepidations about marriage, which isn’t surprising considering our backgrounds, but we both agree that we’d love children a few years down the line.
Lack of money has also held us back, but the thought of children growing up in this idyllic place, of having the kind of childhood I never had, fills me with hope.
The wood is denser the deeper I go, and just when I’m beginning to worry I might get lost I catch a glimpse of the cognac-coloured fence in the distance and the small clearing next to the old, disused well where Harry and I used to hang out.
I walk to the well and look down into darkness.
I remember how Harry and I would yell into it, enjoying the echo it made.
I walk around a bit more, prodding the earth with the toe of my trainer, amazed to see a patch of bluebells at the root of one of the trees, when my phone’s ringtone startles me.
I reach in my pocket and my heart sinks when I see Alison’s name flashing up on the screen.
I consider deliberately not answering it but then realize I can’t avoid her forever.
We haven’t spoken since I went to visit her last month.
‘Hey, Immy,’ she says as soon as I answer. ‘Long time no speak. You okay?’
I have the sudden paranoid thought that she’s somehow heard about the inheritance and this is a test. Has DI Shirley called her yet to check my alibi for the day of Dorothea’s murder? Would she have let slip about the house?
‘I’m good. You?’ I answer carefully.
‘Yeah. All good here.’
‘Lila and Gareth?’
‘Yep. Lila got the main part in the school play.’
‘Maria! She got it! That’s brilliant.’ I smile when I think of how excited Lila must be.
She’d spent hours the weekend I was there practising for her audition, singing ‘The Hills Are Alive’ over and over again while I curled up on her bed and watched her with awe, amazed at her confidence. ‘Where does she get her talent from?’
‘Not us! I’m so proud.’ Alison sounds so happy, I don’t want to burst her bubble by telling her about Dorothea and she hasn’t mentioned the police so maybe they haven’t contacted her yet.
There’s a beat of awkward silence, but then that’s not unusual. Neither of us is great at small talk, especially on the phone.
‘So, um, Immy. I wanted to have a chat with you about something … sensitive.’
I brace myself. So she does know. ‘Okaaay.’
‘Can we meet? I’d rather do this face to face.’
I feel sick. But she’s right. We are always – marginally – better in person. ‘Sure. When?’
‘Tomorrow? I could get the train to Bristol.’
‘Could you come to Bath?’
‘What? Why?’ She sounds confused; maybe she doesn’t know about Dorothea’s will after all? I mentally kick myself for mentioning Bath.
‘Long story. But we can talk properly tomorrow.’
‘Sure. I’ll meet you outside the abbey. Say one p.m.? We could grab some lunch?’
Bath will be rammed on the weekend, so I tell her I’ll book us a table somewhere.
‘Perfect. See you tomorrow. Gotta go. Bye.’ She mimics two kisses down the phone and then she’s gone.
I stand looking down at my mobile, my head spinning. If Alison doesn’t know about Dorothea’s will, then what does she want to talk about so urgently?
The woods feel chilly, so I turn around and head back the way I came.
But I must have taken a wrong turn, distracted by Alison’s call, and I end up walking back a different way.
At least I think it’s a different way. I’m getting disorientated as it all looks the same.
I’m not yet on the main path so I walk through the trees, turning to make sure the fence is behind me, and I stumble into a thicket.
I definitely didn’t come this way but the wood isn’t very big.
Even so, I don’t fancy the idea of getting stuck here in the dark.
I quicken my steps. The day might feel spring-like but I always forget darkness comes down quicker than I expect.
I continue walking, relieved when I see glimpses of the house in the distance.
I push my way through a group of close-knit trees and then I stop dead in horror, clamping my hand over my mouth.
Hanging on the branches of a tree right at the edge of the wood is a dead bird, strung up by its neck. I baulk, nausea rising, as I take in its black and white feathers, bony feet and crooked neck. A magpie.
A twig snaps behind me and I let out a yelp of fear. And then I run, as fast as I can, back to my new home.