Page 71 of The Diary at the Last House Before the Sea

‘But I don’t have a car here. I came with River.’

‘Then I suggest that you call for a taxi.’

Geoffrey walked away, along the landing, down the stairs and out into what he liked to think of as his ‘secret garden’. Tucked away around the corner of the house, it was a profusion of large, blowsy blooms at this time of year.

His father would have deemed the display vulgar but there was something about the unapologetic, in-your-face flowers that Geoffrey found comforting. Especially on days like this when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him.

The irony was that he’d intended to give Bartie some money from the sale anyway. More, he imagined, than Bartie’s share in Hannah’s commission would have been.

He leaned against the kitchen wall, closed his eyes and breathed in the heady scent of peonies, hydrangea and rhododendron.

Several minutes later he heard a car approaching, its tyres crunching on gravel. The slamming of a car door followed and the crunching resumed, growing fainter as the vehicle moved along the drive, until it disappeared completely.

31

CLARA

The dining room was noisy and smelled of overcooked vegetables. Around twenty people were sitting at circular tables, some eating or chatting and one or two seemingly asleep in their chairs.

Staff in blue tunics were moving amongst the diners, taking empty plates away and re-filling water glasses.

‘Excuse me, is Violet Winter in here?’ asked Clara, stepping aside to let a young man carrying two bowls go by. The residents of this care home on the outskirts of Dorking were about to enjoy treacle sponge and custard for pudding.

The man nodded distractedly towards double doors at the back of the dining hall.

‘I think Violet has gone to the beach. She told us she wasn’t very hungry today. Her appetite comes and goes.’

‘The beach?’ River frowned, as confused by this as Clara because the sea was miles away. ‘We thought she’d be here.’

The young man smiled and pulled the wobbling bowls closer to his chest. ‘It’s our kind of beach. You can find Vi through those doors over there.’ He glanced past Clara’s shoulder and grimaced. ‘Can’t stop. Jim’s about to kick off because he’s waiting for his dessert.’

Still confused, Clara murmured her thanks and she and River wound their way past tables and diners to the doors that were painted navy blue. Someone had fixed a wooden sign above the lintel that read: i do like to be beside the seaside.

Puzzled, she pushed the doors open and she and River stepped into a room that overlooked a garden filled with tidy flower beds.

‘Ah, a beach!’ whispered Clara, realising what the care assistant had been talking about.

One wall of this room was a bright azure blue, like the Mediterranean sky on a summer’s day, and a blazing yellow sun had been painted at its centre. Sweeping green waves, topped by white horses, were depicted at the bottom of the wall, and the floor in front of this faux sea was covered with real yellow sand. A low wooden guardrail had been fixed to the floor – a three-sided rectangle to keep the grains in place, and faint squawks of seagulls were sounding from a speaker high up on the wall.

‘It’s an indoor beach,’ said River beside her. ‘For people who can’t get out or who miss the sea. Absolute genius.’

A woman with a shock of white hair was the only person in the room. She was sitting with her back to them, staring out of the window at the garden’s lone tree that was bending in the wind.

When Clara glanced at River, he gave her a small nod. This was her project, her passion. This was for her to do.

‘Audrey?’ she asked gently, her voice drifting across the room, along with the bird song. ‘Audrey Brellasham?’

The woman’s head lifted at that but she continued staring ahead for a few seconds before turning towards them.

Clara caught her breath. Any doubts she’d had, any worries that she’d misunderstood the diary’s cryptic final message, were dispelled the moment she caught sight of the elderly woman’s face.

The skin was lined and the pale blue eyes tired, but the tilt of her jaw, the shape of her mouth, and her direct gaze were the same as in the portrait of a much younger woman that was hanging at Brellasham Manor.

Almost seventy years after her tragic death, Audrey Brellasham had been found.

Neither Clara nor River moved. They stared at the woman, who gave her visitors the faintest hint of a smile before folding her hands into the lap of her pink dress.

‘We’re sorry to intrude but would it be all right if we had a quick word with you?’ asked Clara, finding her voice.

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