Page 118 of The Vanished

“I’ll ask Rhys to come,” Quinn said. “He will want to be there.”

“When will you go?”

“Tomorrow,” Quinn said as she reached for her mobile to call Rhys.

EIGHTY

Quinn and Rhys were both in a somber mood as they headed back to the Lake District, no longer two friends giddy with the prospect of a few days of unexpected freedom, but historical detectives who needed to tie up loose ends. They would stop by the police station to collect the bangle and earring that had been found at the bottom of the well, then visit Dinah Wilson at the retirement village. She had agreed to see them, and Quinn hoped she might be able to fill in at least some of the blanks. She couldn’t stop thinking about Honor and her horrific final moments, but didn’t think the bangle would show her anything she hadn’t already seen. Honor’s story had come to an end when she had been tossed into the well, and Quinn didn’t care to relive her terror as she died.

Focused on the business side, as usual, Rhys lamented the future of the show and vented his own frustrations.

“The historical portion is weighty enough, but the modern-day component will fall flat if we can’t effectively bring this tragedy into the present.”

Quinn sighed in exasperation. “If you want to control the narrative, then you must rely on fictional accounts. I can only tell you what I see and offer up whatever ending I find. If that’s not good enough for your viewers, then perhaps we should leave this story untold.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Rhys instantly backpedaled. “But I do have to consider the ratings.”

“I understand, but these are people’s lives, Rhys. And if the Bellamys have living descendants, we owe them a duty of care.”

Rhys nodded. “We do, but they might want the story to be told. They cannot let that poor girl be forgotten.”

“First, let’s see what we can find out, shall we?”

They drove the rest of the way in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Quinn experienced an acute pang of melancholy when they drove through the gates of the retirement village. It didn’t resemble the community Phoebe had lived in, but the residents who were gardening, playing tennis, and walking in pairs or groups of threes made her miss Phoebe with an intensity she hadn’t felt since those first months. It gladdened her heart that these people seemed to be enjoying an active and social retirement, but it also reminded her that, for each and every one of them, this was the final chapter in a life that might not have been newsworthy but was still precious and now so woefully short.

“Here we are,” Rhys said as he pulled up in front of a neat one-story cottage.

He stepped out, then popped the boot and took out a plastic cool box.

“Homemade napoleon,” he explained. “Katya would never forgive me if I showed up empty-handed. And this is so much better than store-bought cake.”

“You don’t bring me napoleon,” Quinn grumbled.

“That’s because I have the deepest respect for your arteries. That custard cream is all butter and sugar.”

“What did this nice lady do to you that you’re trying to hurry along her demise?”

“I just want her to experience a slice of heaven,” Rhys said and rang the bell.

The woman who opened the door was in her eighties, but despite her age her gaze was bright and her smile welcoming. And she was surprisingly stylish. Dinah Wilson wore her gray hair long and loose, and her wraparound dress put Quinn in mind of the psychedelic patterns of the sixties. It was all oranges, reds, blues, and greens, the motif a mosaic of vibrant color. Dinah’s blue eyes were accented by expertly applied eyeliner, the ends winged, and she wore pearly pink lipstick. She looked like one of the earliest Bond girls, now enjoying her golden years.

“Dr. Allenby,” she exclaimed, as if Rhys weren’t even there. “It is such a pleasure to meet you. I’ve watched every episode of Echoes from the Past. It’s one of my favorite programs.”

“Thank you. That’s very kind,” Quinn said.

“Please come in. Shall I pop the kettle on?”

“My wife made napoleon,” Rhys said and handed her the container.

“How very considerate,” Dinah Wilson replied. “I’m not much of a baker, but I do have a sweet tooth.”

“Don’t we all?” Rhys said and smiled broadly.

The next few minutes were spent preparing the tea, putting the squares of pastry onto a pretty plate, and setting up in the lounge. It was a warm, comfortable room full of books, colorful pottery, and amateur paintings.

“I always wanted to paint,” Dinah said when she followed the direction of Quinn’s gaze. “But I never had the time. I made a promise to myself that I will do whatever I want from now on. And eat whatever makes me happy. And this makes me happy,” she said as she took a forkful of napoleon. “This is delicious.”