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‘Clarissa cooked a hotpot. I’m sure there’s plenty. Come back and have dinner with us.’
Abigail was already shaking her head, no. ‘Thank you, Peter. That’s very kind of you. Another time.’ Before he asked her how she was, which she could tell was on the tip of his tongue, she said, ‘How’s Joyce?’ as they walked along the beach towards the lane.
‘She has her good days and bad days. You know how it is.’
Abigail didn’t. It was a rotten thing, losing someone slowly to dementia.
They reached the cul de sac where Abigail had parked her car on the driveway of the guesthouse.
She paused with Peter and Clarissa. The two children were walking ahead, towards home, with Donut on the lead.
Abigail turned to Peter and Abigail. ‘Send Joyce my love, won’t you?’
Peter came over and gave her a hug. ‘You know my door is always open. If you need anything … anything at all.’
Abigail offered him a smile, something she was used to doing for people, just to pretend to them she was okay.
‘I better get after them. I’ve got the door key,’ said Peter, looking up the street at his two young grandchildren as they arrived at the front gate of his cottage.
Clarissa watched her dad walk up the road before turning to Abigail. ‘Thanks for not saying anything.’
Abigail stared after Peter before focusing on Clarissa. ‘You know what? I can’t see what good would come of it, to be honest. You’re right: Toby is gone. I started to look into it because, according to my solicitor, the Somervilles are contesting the original trust, but having discovered he was most likely that foundling, and the cottage was put into a trust for him when he was a child, I don’t think they’ve got a leg to stand on. That’s what my solicitor said too. It’s not like Daphne wasn’t of sound mind over thirty years ago.’
‘But don’t you want to know for sure?’ Clarissa asked.
Abigail shook her head. ‘I don’t want you to bother your mum about it. I think the fact you did the DNA test and got those results speaks for itself.’
Clarissa asked, ‘Will we see you again before you return to London?’
Abigail had a thought. ‘Do you want to see the cottage? You could come and visit. I’ll give you the address of—’
‘No, I don’t need the address, Abigail. I think I’d rather not visit. It’s not that I don’t want to see you,’ she hastily added. ‘It’s just … it’s going to be weird knowing he owned the place, and he isn’t there. Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. Honestly, I understand.’
‘You’re going to sell it – aren’t you?’
‘That’s the plan.’ Abigail glanced at the guesthouse. The outside lamp was on, illuminating the drive. It was now dusk. Soon the street lights would flick on. ‘I have told no one else, though. Everyone thinks I’m so lucky inheriting it, and they assume it’s a foregone conclusion that I’m going to stay there.’
‘Well, if you need help to prepare it for the market, or you want some free advertising before you sell it, I could write an article about the cottage, dig into its history, sort of publicising it before it hits the market.’
The last thing Abigail wanted was publicity – an article in the local paper about Daphne’s cottage and the new owner that the Somervilles might spot. ‘That’s very kind of you, Clarissa, but I’d really rather not.’
‘But what if someone from the local community comes forward who knew Joyce and Toby when they lived in the cottage? Or knew exactly what happened the night of the Great Storm?’
What Clarissa said brought to mind something Ray’s ex, Sarah had said to her about the two sisters, Mabel and Marjorie, who ran the charity shop next door. She called them The Gossip Girls.Perhaps she didn’t need to speak to Joyce, or have Clarissa write a news article to print in the local paper. Perhaps, if she needed to find out the truth, all she had to do was speak to Lili’s neighbours next door to The Potting Shed. She drove back to the cottage in the dark, thinking it over.
