Epilogue
Neville saw the old wooden country signpost just in time, and indicated left, down a tree-lined lane. All around them, the glorious English countryside was bathed in late summer sunshine, and he felt his mood lift.
He turned to look at the woman in the passenger seat beside him. Lyssa, sensing the movement, glanced at him and smiled.
‘Thanks again for driving me here,’ she said. ‘I know I’ll have to get back behind the wheel at some point, and I will, but right now . . .’ She shrugged.
‘Take your time. And I really don’t mind a drive in the country.’ He might have added, especially with you beside me, but knew the timing was not yet right.
Lyssa, gazing out of the window, wondered how Jennifer Joiner was doing at the mental health clinic, and hoped that she was getting all the help she needed.
When Monica had turned up at her flat the evening after the accident, in tears and so distraught that she was on the verge of collapse, it had all come pouring out of her.
How her daughter, white-faced and appalled at what she’d done, had gone back to her mother and confessed all.
And how Monica had finally used her daughter’s moment of madness to get Jennifer to admit that she needed proper, psychiatric help.
And after buckets of tears, hours of exhaustive talking and many gin and tonics (‘that was just me, Lyssa, honey, Jenny doesn’t drink’), they had made a plan.
Jennifer would voluntarily admit herself to a mental health facility and would do everything she could to let go of this obsession with her father. But all of this, of course, had to depend on what Lyssa intended to do.
And then Monica had literally begged Lyssa not to press charges, and Lyssa had agreed.
In the end, it hadn’t really been a hard decision for her to make.
She was not naturally vindictive, and besides, what would sending Jennifer to prison achieve?
The poor girl’s life was already blighted enough.
And as Monica had said, having Monty’s biography come out for all to read could only be a good thing, and force Jennifer to face the reality of her father’s life, as opposed to her rosily tinted view of it.
Wild Thing, when it was published, would be a revelation to a lot of people – not just to Jennifer.
It would highlight how Monty had funded the Lucky Cuckoos extensively in the early days, and had been instrumental in finding them a decent manager.
How she had used her money to set up such a worthy charity, the Young Mothers’ Trust, and most of all, that she co-wrote the songs, and was a formidable talent in her own right.
And then there was the bombshell ending – about how, even in death, life had treated her unfairly, with Deborah Simmonds and Jonas Bannister looting the charity’s funds for their own personal gain.
But the book, despite its many dark passages, would have plenty of warmth and humour in it too, thanks mainly to Jason’s Aunt Edna.
Once Lyssa had finally got around to interviewing her, the old lady had provided a fund of funny anecdotes about Monty – some of which had made Elizabeth snort with laughter when she’d read Lyssa’s notes on them.
So she was feeling confident that she had got the balance and ‘feel’ of the book just right, and—
Lyssa’s thoughts were interrupted as the first cottages of a small village came into view, and she glanced down at the satnav image on her phone. ‘Church Lane should be just up here, on the right,’ she murmured helpfully.
Amelia Montrose’s family home was a large Georgian house, situated barely a mile away, and all her family had been buried in the churchyard here.
The church itself was Norman (as was the family itself) but parts of it dated back even earlier.
The Montroses of the first five hundred years or so had all been buried within its crypts, but in the later centuries, their tombs and burial sites had been forced to migrate outside into the open air, as she knew from her research.
Neville parked beside a low dry-stone wall, which was covered in ivy-leaved toadflax and other self-seeded wildflowers. He switched off the engine, and in the resulting silence again looked across at her.
‘Do you want me to come with you?’ he offered.
But Lyssa, already reaching behind her for the bunch of freesias and daisies on the back seat, shook her head. ‘No, that’s all right. We know there’s no one stalking me now.’
Which was true enough, she mused. Jonas Bannister and his security chief had made the mistake of frightening the greedy Jack Flynn too much when he had tried to blackmail them with his knowledge of where the money had come from to start up Jonas’ business.
As payback, Flynn had posted all the evidence to Lyssa, who had promptly turned it over to the authorities, with the result that Jonas and his company were now under investigation by the police – and jail time was definitely on the menu for both men.
Already the company shares had fallen to an all-time low, and everyone was expecting the business to be declared bankrupt any day now.
Neville watched Lyssa in silence as she got out and walked to the side gate set into the newer part of the churchyard.
She was dressed in respectful black trousers with a black-and-white top, and her long black ponytail bounced around the lower part of her back as she walked.
He thought he’d never seen a woman walk so gracefully.
With a sigh, he wound down the window and rested his arm along the opening it created, letting his mind drift back.
He’d felt himself pulled towards her from the moment he met her on moving into his flat, but then she’d been married to Kyle and thus forbidden to him.
And when she’d lost her husband so suddenly and unexpectedly, she’d been knocked for six and clearly broken.
Which meant that she had still been forbidden to him.
And now that this bloody affair of Elizabeth’s had backfired on him so roundly, he had to wonder if she would ever be able, in time, to look at him in the way he wanted her to.
But he was a patient man. He would wait. She wouldn’t grieve forever. And with gentleness and kindness . . . As she disappeared amongst the gravestones, searching for Amelia, he knew that he was not about to give up anytime soon.
Oblivious to the thoughts of the man waiting for her in the car, Lyssa began to inspect the gravestones, looking for the name that had become so familiar to her over the past few months.
She knew from her research that Monty had wanted to be buried with Glen, who now rested in the churchyard of the village where they’d lived together at Evergreen.
But the Montrose family had over-ridden her preferences, as they had tried to do so unsuccessfully in her lifetime, and had finally managed to get their way, and Monty had been buried instead alongside her ancestors here.
When she finally found Amelia’s simple stone and knelt beside it, she couldn’t help but wonder what she would have made of it all. Perhaps she’d have been furious, or maybe just sad. Or maybe amused? How could she, Lyssa, possibly know?
Although she’d spent so much time researching and then writing Amelia’s life story and had got to know and understand many things about her well enough, not even those who had been closest to you could always know the innermost workings of your mind and heart. Everyone had, and kept, some secrets.
The grave had one of those inset wells for flowers, and she could see that it still had some water left in it from the last rains. So, carefully taking her time to make them look attractive, she arranged the flowers in front of the fading lettering.
‘There you are, Monty,’ she said quietly, when she had finished. ‘I hope you don’t mind me calling you Monty? I feel as if we’re friends now, in a weird sort of way.’
The sunny churchyard was deserted of all but birdsong, and as Lyssa looked around at the quiet, peaceful place, she felt a gentle warmth steal over her.
‘I feel as if you’ve been looking over my shoulder sometimes, as I’ve been writing Wild Thing, and I swear I could feel your approval.
At least, I hope so,’ she said, looking at the name carved into the marble.
‘I tried to do you justice – no fudging, no lies, the good times and the bad. I recorded it all. I thought you’d appreciate honesty above all. ’
The warm feeling persisted, and it made Lyssa feel good. It was probably just the late summer sunshine, but then again . . .
‘You know that Emily died last week,’ she went on.
Then gave a rueful smile. ‘Well, of course you would know all about that.’ She shook her head at her own folly of talking to a dead woman about another dead woman.
‘I couldn’t help but wonder though, when she talked about never being able to paint how she really wanted to, if you might have been haunting her?
Just to make sure that she didn’t gain anything from killing you. But now . . .’
Lyssa sighed, looking around at her peaceful surroundings again. ‘Somehow, I don’t think you did. I think Emily was right – her own sense of guilt wouldn’t let her become what she so desperately wanted and needed to become. And that brings me to why I’m here.’
Reaching forward, Lyssa slightly rearranged one of the daisies that had fallen out of place.
‘Before I started this project, it never occurred to me that I would want to do anything other than write the truth, whatever that might be. I was always so sure about the ethics involved in what I do, but this time . . . Perhaps it serves me right for being so complacent!’ She gave a little self-mocking laugh.
‘You see, I need to know what you want me to do about what happened to you that night – and about Emily,’ she said softly.
‘All the rest of the book is finished. Soon everyone will know how your charity helped Janet Connor and her son so much and would have gone on to help so many others, if you’d lived.
And your name will finally be added to that of Glen’s as co-songwriter of the band’s hits.
And I think, in this more modern era, everyone’s going to admit that you got a raw deal in the press.
Elizabeth’s pleased with the first draft, anyway. But then, she would be, right?’
Somehow, she thought Monty would have approved and applauded Elizabeth for fighting to get her hands on the long overdue royalties due to her heirs.
‘I think you and Elizabeth would have got on like a house on fire. She knows what she wants and is determined to get it. But she’s left me in the lurch a bit, in that she’s leaving it to me to decide how to tackle what happened on the night of your death .
. . and that’s where I find myself a bit stuck. ’
A blackbird landed close by and began to rootle through some tall grass. It reminded Lyssa of the robin that had so enchanted Emily Bannister, that day, looking out of her window.
‘I just don’t know what to do about Emily, Monty.
Obviously, I have the recorded proof of her confession, but I can’t help but wonder if you’d want me to make it public.
I know how much you loved Glen, you see.
And she was his little sister. He wouldn’t have wanted her branded a murderer, would he?
And she was so young. But you . . . Monty – I don’t know what you want me to do. ’
She was genuinely pleading now. ‘All your short life, your achievements and accomplishments were hidden or trampled on or considered unworthy of acknowledgement. So now, as your biographer, am I supposed to just follow on in the same way? Is even the manner of your death to be kept in the dark and misunderstood? But if you wouldn’t have wanted the truth to come out .
. . I don’t suppose you could help me out and give me a sign, could you?
’ she asked, half laughing, half serious.
But, of course, the dead were the dead, and the only thing she could hear in the churchyard was the slight rustling of the industrious blackbird. With a wry smile, Lyssa got up and stood looking down at the green grass and headstone of Amelia Montrose.
Then, with a sigh, she turned and walked away, knowing she still had to resolve a major issue.
Should she tell Elizabeth about Emily? So far, she hadn’t let anyone know about, or hear, the recording of Emily’s confession.
And to keep such a massive secret from a client went deeply against the grain.
But was Elizabeth her only client? Wasn’t Monty her client too?
And if she did tell Elizabeth, how would it affect how her family thought about Emily?
There would be pain and shock and a deep sense of betrayal.
And hadn’t there already been enough of that?
But did she have a right to keep it from them?
If only something would happen to tell her what to do and stop all this vacillating! It was driving her mad.
As she approached the car, she saw Neville glance up and smile at her, and she felt something stir, very faintly, within her. As if something chilled and withered was faintly coming to life again.
Mentally, she shook her head. She really was losing it now! Talking to a dead woman and acting like some heroine out of a cheesy rom-com.
She slipped into the passenger seat and did up her seat belt. Neville started the car and then turned it around, and, as they headed back out of the village, reached for the radio. ‘A little music to lighten the mood?’
‘Why not?’ Lyssa said. The visit to Monty’s grave had been cathartic, but it hadn’t solved her very real dilemma. She’d had no trouble writing about Amelia Montrose’s life and times, but just what should she write about her death?
The radio finished playing a Human League number, and the DJ reminded his listeners that this was the ‘golden’ hour, and the remaining forty minutes were dedicated to the 60s, 70s and 80s.
And then a familiar tune began to play.
It was a Lucky Cuckoos song – not one of their bigger hits, but a track from one of their albums. And as the opening lines began, and Lyssa heard Glen Bannister’s familiar and distinctive deep voice singing his lover’s words, she felt the tears fill her eyes.
For she knew she had just been given the answer to all her questions.
We found our love,
And who can say how?
And all the sins of our past,
What can they matter now?
And she murmured, ‘Thank you, Monty.’