Unless the intruder（s） came on foot, which is unlikely considering the location of Merryweather and the size and weight of potential stolen goods, this suggests the intruder（s） arrived and left the scene prior to the loss of power at 2.30 a.m. Vehicle was likely parked out of view of the house. Note time discrepancy of statement of witness Rillington re: torchlight. If intruders left at 2.30, there would be no torchlight at 3 or later. Likely explanation in that witness had been consuming alcohol all evening and there was a good deal of lightning in the night. Timeline of power services much more reliable.
Addendum 12 July: blood found on remains of lightbulb still in ceiling has been matched to Mortimer.
8
“A PANOPTICON,” VI SAID.
They were sitting around a tall, slightly wobbly table at the corner Pret a Manger, having breakfast. Stevie had opted for a large coffee and a brownie, which was maybe not the best choice, but it felt right. She was a little confused about what time it was, and therefore she would need to be powered by all the sugar and caffeine she could pump into her system.
“It’s a concept of a prison,” Vi went on, picking out the chunks of mango in their fruit cup to eat them first. “It’s circular. The people in the prison are arranged around a central guard station that you can’t see into. The idea is that you only need one guard, because the imprisoned persons never know when they are being watched, so they have the feeling of always being watched.”
Vi was a student of prison reform, and this was the kind of thing they knew off the top of their head.
“Quinn doesn’t have to be everywhere,” Vi went on. “She just has to be somewhere.”
“Do you think she’s really got someone in the building who’s watching us, or did she get lucky?” Stevie asked.
“Doesn’t matter,” Vi said. “That’s the point.”
“Why does she even care?” Stevie said.
“When you’re a guardian, you have to make sure sex isn’t happening, even when you know it is and there’s nothing wrong with it. It’s patriarchal hangover. Not even a hangover. Just patriarchal.”
Their face took on a disappointed cast, as they had eaten all the mango, the single strawberry, and the three grapes, and now reached the milky-pale melon pieces that lurk at the base of every cup of fruit. Vi was not a waster of food, so they grimly set about consuming the tasteless melon.
Throughout this discussion, Janelle had been consulting the schedule on her phone and nodding at various points to show her agreement. She was looking spectacular for their big day out in London. Janelle had recently gotten into online consignment shopping and had picked up some clothes she referred to as “pieces.” She was wearing one now, a formfitting sweater dress with zigzagging rows of multicolored autumnal shades. （“This is vintage Missoni. I got it for fifty-five bucks because it had a little hole in the hem. I can fix that no problem. Missoni.”） Her hair was up in two bunches, which she had accented with multiple bronze and orange barrettes. Janelle was not playing around on a trip like this.
“We should walk back the way we went last night,” she said, “along the river, and catch the hop-on-hop-off bus at Temple Pier, which is really close. So we should finish and go. Nate, are you going to get anything to eat?”
“Not hungry,” he said. “We should get going.”
The plan, which had seemed so sensible and short and compact when Stevie had first seen it, was now in motion. They bought passes for the hop-on-and-off tour bus and rode around London, Janelle tracking on her phone. They got off to see the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace, which involved standing at a gate while people in huge black fur hats moved around. Back on the bus to the far corner of Hyde Park. Hyde Park was exactly what the name suggested—a park, and a lot of it. It connected to more park. Travel has so much between time—walking around and trying to figure out where you were. There was Kensington Palace, the Peter Pan statue, the Serpentine, where they considered getting a boat but there was no time, Speakers’ Corner . . . then through an arch to more park, a different park. This one was Green Park, which was basically Buckingham Palace’s back garden. This led to St. James’s Park and St. James’s Palace （there were way more palaces than Stevie thought）， down to Westminster, to 10 Downing Street and the Imperial War Rooms. Back on the bus. Back in some other direction. Where were they? Covent Garden? Soho? Russell Square. Just names now. Names and massive buildings.
Her head was spinning and her attention flagging.
Izzy. She appeared in Stevie’s mind. The point of her chin, her long hands, her fuzzy coat, her masses of hair that looked adorably perfect piled on her head like a glamorous owl sanctuary. Izzy and David spent so much time together here. He hadn’t mentioned her on their calls. Or had he? Maybe once he mentioned an Iz. Stevie probably thought he said “is” or something. Why not mention her? He planned things with her. Like that ride last night. Of course, it was a good surprise. He got her a trip on the London Eye and a murder story.
And yet.
So much time together. So many London nights like the one last night. So many long evenings and drizzling rain, and talking at the pub, and walking these streets . . . the streets she didn’t know.
My aunt saw a murder. She was there.
She looked down at her phone and did some searching. She had only a few points of reference for her search. Two murders. 1995. A country house. A burglar.
Google didn’t turn up much. She only found one or two articles, and they all repeated the basic facts that Izzy had told her. Nine students, recently graduated from Cambridge, went to a house called Merryweather on June 23, 1995. That night, during a storm, they played an outdoor game of hide-and-seek. Two members of the party never came back inside and were discovered in the morning in the woodshed, murdered with an axe. The matter was thought to be connected to several local burglaries. And that was it. Nothing more.
The two cases she had worked on before—the Ellingham case and the Box in the Woods murders—both had substantial coverage. The lack of information out in the world was both disappointing and intriguing. This was fresh ground, undisturbed.
“We’re here,” Nate said, tapping her on the arm.
They had returned to their starting point. Stevie hadn’t even noticed. She hurriedly grabbed her bag and followed Nate down the steps to the lower level and off the bus. Janelle and Vi had already disembarked.
The dark was gathering over Craven House as they stepped into the greenish light of the lobby. The tree looked slightly sadder today. It was leaning to the left and someone had put googly eyes on a few of the ornaments. Two balls had fallen off the tree and were lolling underneath.
“Harsh,” Nate said, noting it as he passed. “You know, the best fanfic I ever read was an erotic story about Thor and Tony Stark living together on a Christmas tree sex farm.”
“What?” Vi said. “Was it a sex farm or a Christmas tree farm?”
“Both,” Nate replied as they pushed open the doors into the common room. “Mostly sex, some tree. I don’t think they were taking the business seriously, because that was no way to handle a wreath.”
The common room was a large space with a shocking purple carpet, several wood-framed sofas and large worktables, with a small bar in the corner that didn’t appear to be open. David and Izzy were already there, sitting together on a sofa working on their individual laptops. Izzy was wearing an oversized white blouse with large sleeves. On Stevie, it would have been a confused mess, and it sort of was on Izzy as well, but it was also charming.