‘Nancy?’ Conor calls, his voice a little strangled by the sound of the sea. He walks towards her and the rest of us start to follow.
‘What’s wrong with her? Why is she sitting in the rain wearing an eye mask?’ Trixie asks.
‘Go back inside,’ Lily says. ‘Stand in the doorway where I can see you and don’t move.’
Trixie does as she is told and the rest of us walk towards my mother. The rain is relentless now, much heavier than it was only a few moments ago, and so hard that the water seems to be falling up as well as down. Nancy’s normally perfect hair is dripping wet and clinging to her face. Her clothes are soaking too, she’s clearly been out here for a long time. The rain must have smudged the thick black eyeliner and mascara she always wears; it looks as if she has been crying black tears behind her mask. Even stranger is the sight of her red alarm clock. It is balancing between the branches of the magnolia tree just above her head, and still ringing.
Conor reaches up to turn it off. The clock says three a.m. but it’s already twenty minutes past. I can’t help wondering if that was why Nancy was never on time for anything; maybe the clocks she used were wrong. Or maybe someone just wanted to make a point. It seems my mother was late for her own murder, because I think we all know that’s what this was and that she is dead.
Nancy’s hands are by her sides and her sleeves have been rolled up. Her left hand is holding onto her beloved copy of The Observer’s Book of Wild Flowers, the little green book that she always carried around like a Bible, and used to choose our names. Her right hand is holding what looks like a small bunch of lilies, roses and daisies tied to her fingers with a red ribbon. A string of ivy is wrapped tightly around her neck, not quite covering the silver heart-shaped locket she always wears. It is unclasped to reveal the pictures inside. All this time, I had presumed that it contained two tiny photos of my sisters. But now that it is open, I can only see a tiny black-and-white picture of myself as a child on one side, and a pressed daisy on the other.
Rose slides her gun into her jacket pocket. I find myself replaying Lily’s words in the kitchen – when she accused Rose of having something to do with all of this – and for a moment I do wonder, as my eldest sister, once again, takes charge of a situation most people would be overwhelmed by. She leans over Nancy on the bench as though she were a stranger, not our mother, and I can’t help noticing that the gun is within my reach. I could take it. Not that I’d know what to do with it. I’ve never even held a gun before.
‘She’s dead,’ Rose confirms, having checked for a pulse.
Lily starts to wail, staring up at the night sky. It is a level of grief and despair that none of us have seen her display before, and nobody knows what to say as a mix of tears and rainwater stream down her face. The sound of ticking is still so loud, it makes me think of a cartoon bomb. Conor is holding the red alarm clock that was in the tree, and as he shines the torch on its face, we can all see that something has been written on it: THERE IS ALWAYS TIME FOR TRUTH.
‘What does that mean?’ I ask.
‘I don’t understand what is happening here tonight. Who is doing this and why?’ says Lily.
‘I don’t know,’ Rose replies. ‘But I think this confirms it.’
‘Confirms what?’
‘Someone else did 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 favourite 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.
Thirty-two
SEAGLASS – 1987
We are getting soaked by the relentless rain as we stand and stare down at my dead mother, and the weather reminds me of the last terrible storm at Seaglass, almost twenty years ago. Nana was planning a big launch for her tenth book at her favourite 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.