came out of nowhere. As if she sensed he’d heard it, she said, smiling, “I went to her once, begging a potion. I was madly in love, and I didn’t know how to handle it. I thought she might give me something to put in his soup or his breakfast porridge—we were too young for goblets of wine, but I grew up on the stories of Tristan and Isolde. I knew—thought I knew—that such potions worked. She was very gentle, but she told me that love couldn’t be bought.”
He thought she was belittling herself and what had actuallyhappened, but said nothing. It occurred to him to ask her about Anne, but it was not the time. Then she mentioned the name herself.
“It was Anne who’d read the old Cornish legends to me. Her grandfather Trevelyan—Rosamund’s father—had compiled a collection of them, it was famous in its day, and there’s a letter in the house from Tennyson, telling him how much the book stirred his imagination while he was writing Idylls of the King . I could quote long passages from it by heart. Well, we all could. Nicholas, especially. You’d have thought, watching our theatricals, that he was the poet. He read so beautifully.”
“Tell me about Anne.”
“Anne? My goodness, there’s nothing to tell. Anne died when she was eight or nine. She was Olivia’s twin, and they were so much alike, to look at them, that you couldn’t believe it. But oddly enough they were quite different in natures. Anne was the sort of child who’d never met a stranger—she could cajole anyone into doing anything. Except Livia, of course! Stephen reminds—reminded—me of Anne, the same golden charm. Livia was, I don’t know, one of those people who lived in her imagination, and found it rich enough that she didn’t need other stimulation. She was quiet and thoughtful and very much her own woman, even in childhood.”
“How did Anne die?”
“She fell out of an apple tree in the old orchard. It isn’t there now, Rosamund had the orchard cut down, but it was beyond the back garden, sheltered by brick walls. We were all playing there, Nicholas and Olivia and Anne and I. And she reached too far for an apple, lost her balance, and came down on a root. I’d never seen a dead person before. I was terrified, out of my wits. I thought she was teasing, playing games with us.”
“Was Cormac there?”
Rachel frowned. “I don’t remember. He may have been. It was Nicholas I remember most, kneeling beside Anne, taking her hand, calling to her, crying because she wouldn’t answer him. And Olivia having trouble coming down from thetree. Because of her leg. This was before Nicholas had carved a brace, of course.”
“Anne fell? No one pushed her?”
She looked at him, surprised. “No, why should anyone push her? She was up in the tree, picking apples, and then she reached too far. We were all children , we would never have dreamed of such a thing!”
But children killed. It was something that he’d learned in London, his first year at the Yard.
They came out of the woods into a lane that joined the main street of the village, where houses clustered together under slate roofs that looked like quicksilver in the sun, lead in the rain. There were gardens behind every gate, crowded with vegetables and flaming with color.
Rachel stopped. “I go this way—I’m staying with a friend on the outskirts.” She shaded her eyes again with her hand, and said, “You didn’t mean that—about going back to London? You’ll stay and see what you can find? I’ll never persuade Henry to appeal for help again.”
He laughed. “Probably not.” Remembering the heat in London, the cramped little office, Bowles’ pretensions, and the squalid knifings that had somehow captured the imagination of the city, he found himself saying, “No, I’m not going back yet. I’ll be here for several more days.”
She left, reassured, and he turned towards The Three Bells. But noticing the shingle on the front of the doctor’s surgery,
He thought she was belittling herself and what had actuallyhappened, but said nothing. It occurred to him to ask her about Anne, but it was not the time. Then she mentioned the name herself.
“It was Anne who’d read the old Cornish legends to me. Her grandfather Trevelyan—Rosamund’s father—had compiled a collection of them, it was famous in its day, and there’s a letter in the house from Tennyson, telling him how much the book stirred his imagination while he was writing Idylls of the King . I could quote long passages from it by heart. Well, we all could. Nicholas, especially. You’d have thought, watching our theatricals, that he was the poet. He read so beautifully.”
“Tell me about Anne.”
“Anne? My goodness, there’s nothing to tell. Anne died when she was eight or nine. She was Olivia’s twin, and they were so much alike, to look at them, that you couldn’t believe it. But oddly enough they were quite different in natures. Anne was the sort of child who’d never met a stranger—she could cajole anyone into doing anything. Except Livia, of course! Stephen reminds—reminded—me of Anne, the same golden charm. Livia was, I don’t know, one of those people who lived in her imagination, and found it rich enough that she didn’t need other stimulation. She was quiet and thoughtful and very much her own woman, even in childhood.”
“How did Anne die?”
“She fell out of an apple tree in the old orchard. It isn’t there now, Rosamund had the orchard cut down, but it was beyond the back garden, sheltered by brick walls. We were all playing there, Nicholas and Olivia and Anne and I. And she reached too far for an apple, lost her balance, and came down on a root. I’d never seen a dead person before. I was terrified, out of my wits. I thought she was teasing, playing games with us.”
“Was Cormac there?”
Rachel frowned. “I don’t remember. He may have been. It was Nicholas I remember most, kneeling beside Anne, taking her hand, calling to her, crying because she wouldn’t answer him. And Olivia having trouble coming down from thetree. Because of her leg. This was before Nicholas had carved a brace, of course.”
“Anne fell? No one pushed her?”
She looked at him, surprised. “No, why should anyone push her? She was up in the tree, picking apples, and then she reached too far. We were all children , we would never have dreamed of such a thing!”
But children killed. It was something that he’d learned in London, his first year at the Yard.
They came out of the woods into a lane that joined the main street of the village, where houses clustered together under slate roofs that looked like quicksilver in the sun, lead in the rain. There were gardens behind every gate, crowded with vegetables and flaming with color.
Rachel stopped. “I go this way—I’m staying with a friend on the outskirts.” She shaded her eyes again with her hand, and said, “You didn’t mean that—about going back to London? You’ll stay and see what you can find? I’ll never persuade Henry to appeal for help again.”
He laughed. “Probably not.” Remembering the heat in London, the cramped little office, Bowles’ pretensions, and the squalid knifings that had somehow captured the imagination of the city, he found himself saying, “No, I’m not going back yet. I’ll be here for several more days.”
She left, reassured, and he turned towards The Three Bells. But noticing the shingle on the front of the doctor’s surgery,
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