Page 55 of Daisy Darker


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“I don’t understand what is happening here tonight. Who is doing this andwhy?” says Lily.

“I don’t know,” Rose replies. “But I think this confirms it.”

“Confirms what?”

“Someoneelsedid this. It couldn’t have been any of us. There is someone else here at Seaglass, and they’re killing us one by one.”

Nancy

Daisy Darker’s mother was an actress with the coldest heart.

She didn’t love all her children, and deserved to lose her part.

An unexpected pregnancy resulted in marriage and three girls,

But instead of loving her family, Nancy longed to see the world.

She had wanted to be an actress, but life cast her as a mum instead.

Her leading role took its toll and made her want to stay in bed.

Her favorite daughter was pretty, and the eldest one was smart,

But the youngest child was always a burden, having been born with a broken heart.

Nancy blamed herself for this tragedy, though no one understood why.

Her guilt made her lonely, bitter, and sad, but she was still unable to cry.

When the time came, no one knew who to blame when she was poisoned by her own flowers.

By the time she was found, in the rain-soaked grounds, Mrs. Darker had been dead for hours.

32

SEAGLASS

1987

The last terrible storm at Seaglass was almost twenty years ago. Nana was planning a big launch for her tenth book at her favorite bookshop. We were all invited, but my father was very busy—as usual—and said he might not be able to be there. So when the telephone rang, we all presumed it was him, calling to apologize from whatever corner of the world he was in with his orchestra. But it was a call from the hospital instead, and not about me for a change. My parents were long divorced, but Nancy was still registered as my dad’s next of kin, and he’d been in an accident.

Most people in the UK can remember the great storm of 1987. We’ve all laughed about the BBC weatherman Michael Fish who got the forecast so spectacularly wrong and never lived it down. There’s a fantastic clip of what he said that day: “Apparently a lady rang the BBC and said she heard that there was a hurricane on the way. Well, don’t worry, if you’re watching, there isn’t.” But he was wrong. There was. That October, a hurricane devasted huge parts ofthe country, and Seaglass nearly disappeared beneath the waves for good. Dad had been on the way to join us to celebrate Nana’s latest children’s book when his car was hit by a falling tree. His visit was meant to be a surprise, but the storm had a bigger one in store.

“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” Nancy said when the hospital called. Love always trumps hate when you fear you might lose someone for good. She and Nana left immediately, the book launch was canceled, and Mr. Kennedy came to look after me and my sisters for the night, along with Conor.

One night turned into several. Mr. Kennedy soon ran out of things to do with a house full of children—even though one of them was his own—so when the weather allowed, he encouraged us to spend as much time as possible outside. He taught us about the flowers and plants he and my mother had introduced to Seaglass—the magnolia tree wasn’t much taller than him back then—but our interest and concentration soon started to fade.

“Gardening isboring,” declared Lily, who never liked Conor’s dad. She called him “the narrow man” because he was tall and thin. In some ways I agreed with her assessment. He did look as though life had squeezed him into wearing only narrow thoughts, sweaters, and jeans, almost all of which had pockets and holes. His words were coated in cynicism, even the kind ones, so I could sort of understand why Lily wanted to stay inside and play on her computer.

“Gardening isn’t boring,” said Mr. Kennedy with a strange smile. “One day you might regret spending your life staring at a screen instead of seeing the real world.” Then he told us a story that was unlike anything I’d heard before. “Did you know that spies use plants?”

“Like James Bond?” Conor asked.

His father nodded. “Yes, but in real life. You were all probably too young to remember, but in 1978, a BBC journalist was killed by a poisoned umbrella.”

There was a brief silence while we processed his unfamiliar words.

“An umbrella isn’t a plant,” said Lily.

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