Chapter 12 Imogen #2
Dorothea Roe is warm and charming when I meet her in her stunning Regency villa on the outskirts of Bath.
Famously private and perpetually single, not much is known about Dorothea’s past and she has rarely given interviews over the years.
Over copious amounts of tea and pancakes, and with the rain battering the single-paned windows, she eventually admits to me in a moment of vulnerability that she was unable to have children, and I can sense the sadness beneath her gruff …
I scroll down, but it won’t allow me to read the rest of the article unless I subscribe.
This is the only interview with Dorothea I can find, so I use the station’s password to access the rest of the article – after all, I reason, I am still an employee.
The journalist has written a lovely insight into Dorothea’s world and I can just picture her here, in the kitchen, offering pancakes and numerous cups of tea, although I can see she refuses to be drawn on romantic relationships.
And then I read something that makes me sit up straight, my heart thumping:
There is a playful twinkle in Roe’s eyes as she discusses her new collection. Secrets, she says, will feature heavily in her sculptures. ‘And lots of them.’ When I press her on what kinds of secrets, she refuses to be drawn. ‘You’ll have to go and see the exhibition next year.’
I ask her if they are her secrets, or do they belong to other people? She appears introspective when she says, ‘I find that secrets are like lattice pastry; there is always a point when yours will criss-cross with someone else’s.’
The theme of the collection, says Roe, is magpies. She’s done seven to correspond with the rhyme. ‘I’ve always loved birds, and what bird is more magnificent than the magpie? The keeper of secrets, the stealer of trinkets.’
‘But seven is a secret never told,’ I say recalling the rhyme. ‘Does that mean you’ll be holding some secrets back?’
‘Well, that would be telling,’ Roe replies. ‘Let’s just say that my seventh sculpture is my most explosive.’
I check the date on the article. It was published just a week before Dorothea was murdered. Did someone see this interview and panic that Dorothea was going to spill their secrets? Is that why her studio was torched and the sculptures destroyed? But why push her down the stairs? Why kill her?
I’m just about to read more when something makes me start.
A loud thud overhead.
I freeze.
Another, fainter noise. Footsteps perhaps.
It sounds like it’s coming from the room above.
Dorothea’s study.
I cast around for something to use as a weapon, my heart in my throat.
The studio is still boarded up and the back door is flimsy.
Josh was on the phone on Saturday lining up a builder, but they can’t start for another month or so.
We only moved in three days ago – someone could assume the house is still empty. Or it could be Dorothea’s killer.
I grab a bread knife from a block by the Aga and slowly walk through to the pantry, hoping I’m being overly dramatic and that the sounds I can hear are just the moans and groans of an old house.
If someone has entered through the studio, they would have taken this spiral staircase up to the first floor.
I glance towards the studio and my heart drops.
The door is ajar. Was it like that before?
I creep up the stairs, brandishing the knife as I tiptoe along the hallway, the floorboards creaking underfoot, until I’m standing outside Dorothea’s study. The door is closed and I push it open.
Going through a box, the one with my name on it, is a man.
I gasp in alarm and the man drops the box, spilling the contents, and pushes past me so that I stumble backwards and fall against the banister, the knife clattering out of my hand and onto the bare floorboards as he makes for the winding staircase.
‘Oi!’ I shout, getting to my feet, grabbing the knife and following him down the stairs.
He is wearing a hoody that hides his hair and forehead but I’d been able to see his face: blond stubble, very blue eyes, a long nose.
He’s in his twenties, and wearing baggy jeans and chunky Nike trainers.
I race to the bottom of the stairs but there is no sign of him.
The studio door is wide open and I run through it but the room is empty, a gap in the side of one of the boards.
I head through it and stand in the garden.
Has he gone into the wood? The only other way he could have feasibly escaped is if he managed to vault the six-foot fence.
But then I see that the side gate that leads to the lane is wide open.
It was definitely locked. I follow through the gate, stepping out onto the lane, my knees shaking.
‘Are you all right?’ a voice asks. Dennis is walking past with Solly and the black Lab.
I explain what’s happened and he gently takes the knife from my trembling hand and helps me back through the garden and into the house, sitting me at the table and making me a cup of tea with heaps of sugar.
‘For the shock,’ he says quietly as the dogs lie at my feet.
He takes off his coat and flat cap and he looks weirdly naked without the hat.
Dennis exudes a grandfatherly presence and I’m relieved when he joins me at the table.
I could see for myself how much he seemed to care for Dorothea and I can’t imagine this elderly man would want to hurt her.
‘You shouldn’t have chased him,’ he admonishes, raking his hands through his white hair.
‘He could have been dangerous, and you must get a new lock for that gate. It looks broken.’
It wasn’t broken yesterday.
He clears his throat. ‘I think I should call the police, dear. It was devastating to hear what happened to Dotty, and it could all be connected. The man might come back.’ He gets out his glasses and an ancient iPhone from his coat pocket and begins punching in a number.
‘And you should have a dog about the place. A big house like this.’
I glance at Solly, at his massive fluffy head resting on his massive fluffy paws. I’d love a dog. I’m tempted to ask Dennis if I can have Solly. Josh won’t like it, of course, but what’s the alternative? I doubt he’s going to want to move back to the flat.
Dennis stands up, phone to his ear. ‘Did he steal anything?’ he asks me.
‘I don’t know. I should go and check …’
‘Yes, you go, dear. Oh hello, yes …’ he says loudly into his phone.
‘I need to report a crime.’ I leave the kitchen and head back up to Dorothea’s study.
Something niggles. It’s not until I’m in the study that I realize why.
The house is full of valuable antiques and yet the man had been rummaging through a box, the only one left in the study that still held papers.
In his haste he dropped it and the newspaper cuttings are spread all over the wooden floor.
I pick them up and start to put them back in the box.
The man had been wearing gloves so there will be no fingerprints left behind.
I notice the old Zippo lighter is missing.
Surely the man didn’t break in here just to steal that?
And then I remember the key with the Post-it Note.
Was this what the man had been looking for?
I run to my bedroom and fetch the jeans I was wearing yesterday from where I’d slung them over a chair.
The key is still in the front pocket. Then I dart back downstairs to get my purse from my bag in the hallway.
I retrieve the Post-it Note and unfold it.
I look at the three words scribbled on the yellow square: weld sheet faster.
‘The police are on their way,’ Dennis says when I enter the kitchen.
I hand him the Post-it Note. ‘Do you have any idea what this means?’
He squints. ‘There’s just three words here. They make no sense.’
‘Why would Dorothea write three random words down …’ I trail off as it clicks.
Of course. Three words. I was so stupid not to realize earlier.
‘What three words!’ I cry.
He reads them out and I laugh. ‘No, I mean, it’s co-ordinates.
’ I take out my phone and open up the what3words app and type in the words from the Post-it Note.
Instantly the blue dot highlights an area in Dorothea’s woods.
I head out the patio doors, with Dennis and the two dogs following close behind, a familiar fire in my belly. I’m on to something, I just know it.
It doesn’t take me long to find the spot with the help of the app.
‘Here,’ I say to a befuddled-looking Dennis who still doesn’t understand what I’m talking about. We both glance around the small clearing surrounded by trees. I bend down and examine the ground. This must mean something. It has to.
And then, partially covered in soil and leaves, I notice a piece of metal protruding from the ground. ‘This looks like a handle,’ I say, dusting away the debris surrounding it to reveal a hatch door.
Dennis exhales in surprise. ‘Well I never. It’s one of those old bunkers.’
‘What? Like a World War Two air-raid shelter?’
‘It looks like it. I never knew that was here.’
Solly starts to sniff the hatch and then barks twice. I try the key in the lock on the original hatch door. It fits perfectly. Every nerve feels charged with excitement as I inch closer to knowing more about Dorothea.
Dennis helps me lift the metal door but it’s much lighter than either of us was expecting and it opens easily, crashing back against the ground. I use the torch on my phone to shine a light into the dark void, illuminating a set of stone steps that leads down into a large room.
‘You’re not going down there, are you?’ Dennis asks, his bushy brows furrowed.
‘Of course,’ I say, wielding my phone. I shiver – in anticipation or fear, I can’t decide – and wrap my cardigan further around me, wishing I’d brought my coat.
‘Be careful,’ he says from behind me as I slowly descend the steps. The air smells of acrylics and something strong like turps.
And then I let out a shriek of horror.
A pale face looms out of the darkness.