Page 35 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

‘How long ago did you break up?’

‘The summer before last. It was tough at the time but I’m over it now. Anyway,’ said River, wishing he’d never brought up the subject of his ex-girlfriend, ‘I’ve been thinking about the development of this house and wondered if there’s any chance of Mrs N’s cottage being saved? I know my father’s keen to preserve the grounds, whatever deal is made, so where’s the harm in keeping the cottage?’

Bartie frowned. ‘It’ll be a bit of an eyesore for the owners of the new top-of-the-range apartments who buy here.’

‘It can’t be seen from the manor house, and it’s a pretty, historic cottage. It’ll add charm to the whole development.’

Bartie’s mouth twisted, wrinkling his nose. ‘I don’t think so, mate. I know how these things work.’

The implication being that he didn’t have a clue, thought River, wishing that his cousin would stop referring to him as ‘mate’. But he did his best to smile. ‘Do you need a hand before the developer arrives?’

‘Nah, I think good old Geoff and I are getting everything sorted. So you’re not needed.’

Wasn’t that the truth, thought River as Bartie wandered off. All that was required was his acquiescence to the sale so his father could sell Brellasham Manor, minus any guilt that he’d acted behind his son’s back. And he was definitely avoiding River, which was upsetting but also strangely liberating. If his father couldn’t be bothered to make an effort, River decided, then neither could he.

After dinner, during which Bartie regaled them with examples of his business prowess, River sat in the drawing room at the computer. He’d planned to investigate flights to Australia, so he could get his return home booked – his father didn’t need him, not with Bartie around. But he’d started looking up Audrey Brellasham instead and had quickly fallen down a Google rabbit hole. Twenty minutes later, he was still researching the woman who had been his step-grandmother.

There was very little online about her, and what there was River presumed that Clara had already found: a few newspaper mentions of her marriage to Edwin, and two reports of her disappearance. Both of these reports skirted around the details of what had happened and made oblique references to her drowning in ‘tragic circumstances’.

There were several internet pieces about Edwin, most of them regarding his later marriage to a London socialite, which had ended in her death ten years after they’d walked down the aisle. That was three wives who had died at a relatively young age.

River pushed aside the whisper of suspicion that was swirling round his brain, because he wasn’t about to start fabricating hideous crimes, like Clara. Instead, he went in search of the filing cabinet that used to be in the rarely used office at the back of the manor.

He pushed open the office door and smiled. Nothing changed. The room was arranged exactly as it had been sixteen years ago, with an old wooden desk at its centre and the filing cabinet in a corner. A huge spider plant in a yellow ceramic pot was the only new addition.

The cabinet was unlocked and crammed to overflowing with certificates, documents and pieces of paper. This wild goose chase was going to take some time. River sighed and, sitting cross-legged on the floor, began to sift through the cabinet’s contents.

Fifteen minutes later, he’d found what he was looking for: a marriage certificate for Edwin and Audrey that showed they’d got married in April 1954 at St Augustine’s Church in Heaven’s Cove. He put the certificate to one side and continued searching but that was the only mention of her that he could find. It wasn’t much but it gave Audrey’s maiden name, which Clara might find useful.

Why was he helping her with this obsession of hers? he wondered, getting to his feet. To get back in her good books? Possibly. But the truth was that Clara’s story of a lost diary, unfounded rumours and unintelligible numbers had piqued his own interest in the woman who’d once lived in this house. Audrey, who stared out so enigmatically from her portrait, was getting under his skin, too.

River folded the certificate carefully into his pocket and went back into the drawing room to turn off the computer. But as the screen faded to black, he noticed something on the floor that was poking out from beneath the sofa. It was a colour photo taken of his father in middle age, he realised. Geoffrey, no more than fifty, had a full head of dark hair and was smiling broadly at whoever was taking the picture. It was hard to remember him being so full of life and happy.

River bent to pick up the photo and noticed another two. These had slipped farther under the sofa and he had to scrabble in the dust to grab them.

The first black and white photo was smaller than the picture of his father and was of a woman bending over the reading table in the library. River held the photo up to the lamp and squinted at what he’d found. The woman’s face was in profile but it was clear that she was the same woman depicted in the painting on the second floor. Audrey was peering at a large, open book that took up much of the table space and seemed unaware of the photographer.

She was in the second photo too but wasn’t alone this time. Edwin was standing next to her and Audrey’s hand was resting on the shoulder of the child in front of them. River realised with a jolt that the child must be his father. Edwin was staring directly at the camera, a look of pride on his face, but Audrey’s gaze had wandered. She was looking out of the picture and her mouth was twisted, as if she was biting the inside of her cheek. She looked distracted and unhappy. Did she have a premonition of her future?

River knew that he was getting too caught up in Clara’s ridiculous notions. But he put the photos with the marriage certificate and kept hold of them nonetheless.

16

CLARA

The sun was absent this morning, hidden from view by high grey cloud, but the day was still hot and humid. Clara turned her face to the sky for a moment and breathed in the smell of the sea. It was a perfect day for a picnic, but first she had someone to speak to.

Weaving in and out of the tourists thronging the quayside, Clara made her way to a small whitewashed cottage squeezed between two larger buildings. Lobster Pot Cottage was where former fisherman Claude lived. She’d known him all her life, but there was no guarantee he’d have anything to do with her today.

Claude was curmudgeonly, reclusive and unpredictable. But there was something about him, a vulnerability that surfaced occasionally, that meant she’d always liked him.

Her knock on the front door was greeted by a volley of barking from inside and a loud yell: ‘Give it a rest, Buster!’ Then the door was opened a crack and Claude peered out. His shock of grey hair, once long and wild, was more tamed these days and his beard less bushy, but he still looked like the local eccentric.

‘What is it?’ He gently pushed his dog to one side with his foot.

‘Hello, Claude. It’s Clara, from Brellasham Manor. I wondered if I could have a quick word with you.’

‘What about?’ he asked, his eyes narrowing.

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