Page 29 of The Vanished

“What are you mixed up in, Logan?” she said under her breath as she finally reached for the door handle.

Max appeared to be in good spirits when Quinn dropped him off, and asked if they could have pizza for dinner. That was a promise she could confidently make, so she gave him a hug and a kiss by the gate and watched him run through the door. Ruth Watley gave her a friendly wave, then disappeared inside once all the children had gone in. Quinn returned to the car and considered her options. She could go for a walk to clear her head, but she was too tired, and not in the mood to be around other people. She could research the Bellamys but thought that was premature. She preferred to allow the story to play out in its own time without jumping ahead.

Taken together, the earring and the claddagh ring were confirmation of the victim’s identity, which was an important first step in any investigation. She now knew who, where, and how. What she needed was the why. And she could also use a distraction from her mounting concern for Logan. Ready to dive in, Quinn got herself a large coffee, texted Nicole to thank her for her help, then set off for home. She had work to do.

EIGHTEEN

DECEMBER 1923

Ravenglass

It had been nearly a month since her father had made his announcement, but, instead of making peace with the situation, Geneva found it harder and harder to go on, knowing he had only a few months left to live. Douglas was fading fast, the strength of will he had relied on to fight his illness finally giving out. Honor alternated between sulky silences and emotion-fueled outbursts. And Rory, although understanding of Geneva’s distress, was growing impatient, since his future also hung in the balance, both personally and professionally. But she couldn’t bring herself to give him an answer. Not yet. And she had not gone to his cottage since the night she’d told him of her predicament, despite his insistence that they needed to talk. She wasn’t ready to talk, nor was she ready to engage in renewed intimacy. Not unless she meant to marry him. Rory was right, they had much to discuss, but all that would have to wait.

As the day of Jesseph’s arrival drew ever closer, she became more emotional and short-tempered. It was as if she were being marched to her own execution, and the anticipation of what was to come was becoming almost worse than the thing itself. She didn’t want to meet the man, but she also understood that it was best to face him rather than allow him to grow larger and more terrifying in her mind. At least then she’d know what she was up against and might find a way to reason with him once he was nothing more than flesh and bone rather than some mythical monster.

She hadn’t said so to her father, but, as far as she was concerned, marriage was off the table even if the man was willing. So, either Jesseph would agree to look after the sisters or he wouldn’t. As she gazed up at the familiar façade of Bellamy Hall, Geneva knew it would break her heart to leave the only home she’d ever known, but, given the tragic losses nearly everyone in the country had suffered so recently and the young men who had been killed in the Great War, losing one’s home wasn’t the worst thing that could happen to a person. She had to remain steadfast, for both her father and her sister, and stop moping about.

Rory was right. It wasn’t fair to make her father’s final days intolerable, so she would try to make the best of the situation and prevail upon Honor to do the same. They had to focus on Douglas and spare him any unnecessary suffering. And until he was truly gone, Geneva wasn’t going to make any decisions about the future, no matter how impatient Rory got. She felt too emotionally raw and had yet to broach the really difficult subjects that would decide their future.

She hadn’t told Honor of Rory’s proposal, and in her quieter moments, when her sister sought reassurance rather than an opportunity to vent her frustration, they talked of the future. It was a terrifying prospect to suddenly find themselves cast out of their home and into a world of which they knew precious little, but countless women had managed to survive after they’d lost their men in the war. And the Bellamy girls would be no different. Perhaps Geneva could take a secretarial course or find a position as a teacher. It would be more difficult to place Honor, since she wasn’t yet of age and wasn’t qualified to do much of anything, but they would cross that bridge when they came to it. Geneva would speak to Aunt Clarissa when she came for Christmas. Maybe they could stay with her and Rose in London until they got on their feet. They didn’t need much, just a roof over their heads. Surely Aunt Clarissa could spare one room in her townhouse. The more Geneva and Honor spoke of it, the more manageable it all seemed.

So, the days went on much as before, and, when it all got too much and her father’s suffering became too difficult to bear, Geneva found solace in solitude. She went for long walks along the wintry mudflats, retreated to her room with a book, or, on fine days, went for a drive. Douglas had been against her learning to drive, but Geneva had reminded him that plenty of women had driven ambulances during the war and that one didn’t need to be male to handle a motor. Douglas had held out until Geneva turned eighteen but had finally succumbed to her pleas and taught her how to drive. They’d started out on deserted rural roads, where she wasn’t likely to encounter anyone but sheep, but eventually her father’s confidence had grown and he had permitted Geneva to drive in more populated areas. He still didn’t like it when she went out on her own, but since he had shared his devastating news, she hadn’t bothered to ask. She simply took the car and left, usually before Honor was up so she didn’t have to invite her to come along. Her sister needed her support, but, although Geneva was doing everything in her power to help her through this difficult time, Honor could be selfish. She needed to unload her anger onto someone else in order to feel lighter.

NINETEEN

On the morning of December the tenth, Geneva rose early. She ate a light breakfast of toast and tea, and then, as she did every morning, went to check on her father. His care had largely fallen to his valet, Dennison, who had been with Douglas for nearly four years, and was as loyal a man as any employer could hope for.

Tom Dennison had survived the war but had been discharged shortly before the armistice due to severe shell shock. In the months that had followed, he’d suffered nightmares, bouts of melancholy, and sudden aggression, and found it nearly impossible to adjust to civilian life or secure steady work. Mrs. Dennison had sought the advice of their doctor, who’d recommended a stay at a psychiatric facility. There, Tom had endured solitary confinement, ice baths, and electric shock therapy. By the time he was released, he had been meek as a lamb—but his wife had given up on him and taken up with another man, who had moved into their home.

With nowhere else to go, Tom had returned to his mother, the Bellamys’ cook. Douglas, whose valet had been preparing to retire, had taken pity on the young man and arranged for him to be trained up. Dennison rarely spoke and had yet to form friendships among the staff, but he was devoted to Douglas and tended him with the gentleness of a loving mother nursing her child. He was also noticeably fond of Geneva, who always took the time to speak to him and refused to treat him with contempt, unlike several members of staff, who thought him a queer fish and had branded him a coward.

When Geneva looked in, Douglas was asleep. He was reclining on so many pillows that he was nearly sitting upright, yet even with his head elevated his breathing remained labored. His skin had taken on a waxy cast in recent days, and the room smelled of illness and pungent medicines. Dennison, who had been dozing in a chair by the bed, woke with a start and sprang to his feet. He stood there awkwardly, as if expecting Geneva to reprimand him.

“How is he?” Geneva whispered, mindful of waking her father.

“He had a peaceful night,” Dennison replied.

Dr. Miller had shown him how to administer morphine, which Douglas flat-out refused during the day but sometimes asked for at bedtime so he could rest.

“Did he take morphine last night?” Geneva asked.

Dennison nodded. “He was in a lot of pain.”

“Thank you for taking such good care of him.”

The valet’s cheeks turned pink with the praise. “It’s my privilege, my lady.”

“I can sit with him for a while. Go have your breakfast.”

The man looked conflicted. He’d barely left her father’s side the past few weeks, and slept in Douglas’s dressing room so he could keep an eye on Douglas through the open door.

“Go on, Tom,” Geneva said softly. “You can’t look after him if you don’t look after yourself.”

‘What about you, my lady?”

“I’ve already eaten. Please, go.”

Dennison smiled gratefully. “I won’t be long.”