‘You’re not serious!’
‘It’s just a thought.’
Frances Pye fell silent. This wasn’t the sort of conversation to be having, particularly in a crowded restaurant. But she had to admit that Jack was right. Life without Magnus would be considerably simpler and a great deal more enjoyable. It was just a shame that lightning didn’t have the habit of striking twice.
On the other hand, though, why not?
5
Dr Emilia Redwing tried to see her father once a week although it wasn’t always possible. If the surgery were busy, if she had home or hospital calls to make, if there was too much paperwork on her desk, then she would be forced to put it off. Somehow, it was always easy to make an excuse. There was always a good reason not to go.
She derived very little pleasure from the visits. Dr Edgar Rennard had been eighty years old when his wife had died and although he had continued living in his home in nearby King’s Abbott, he had never really been the same. Emilia had soon got used to the telephone calls from the neighbours. He had been found wandering in the street. He wasn’t feeding himself properly. He was confused. At first, she had tried to persuade herself that he was simply suffering from chronic grief and loneliness but as the symptoms had presented themselves, she had been forced to make the obvious diagnosis. Her father had senile dementia. He wasn’t going to get any better. In fact the prognosis was a great deal worse. She had briefly considered taking him in with her at Saxby-on-Avon but that wouldn’t have been fair to Arthur and anyway she couldn’t possibly become an old man’s full-time carer. She still remembered the guilt, the sense of failure, that she had felt the first time she had taken him to Ashton House, a residential home converted from a hospital in the Bath valley just after the war. Curiously though, it had been easier to persuade her father than it had been to persuade herself.
This wasn’t a good day to have made the fifteen-minute drive to Bath. Joy Sanderling was in London, seeing someone on what she had described as a personal matter. Mary Blakiston’s funeral had taken place just five days ago and there was a sense of disquiet in the village that was hard to define but which, she knew from experience, might well lead to further calls on her time. Unhappiness had a way of affecting people in just the same way as the flu and even the burglary at Pye Hall struck her as being part of that general infection. But she couldn’t put off the visit any longer. On Tuesday, Edgar Rennard had taken a tumble. He had been seen by a local doctor and she had been assured that there was no serious damage. Even so, he was asking for her. He was off his food. The matron at Ashton House had telephoned her and asked her to come.
She was with him now. They had got him out of bed but only as far as the chair beside the window and he was sitting there in his dressing gown, so thin and crumpled that Emilia almost wanted to cry. He had always been strong, robust. As a little girl, she had thought the entire world rested on his shoulders. Today it had taken him five minutes before he had even recognised her. She had seen this creeping up on them. It wasn’t so much that her father was dying. It was more that he had lost the desire to live.
‘I have to tell her …’ he said. His voice was husky. His lips had difficulty shaping the words. He had said this twice before but he still hadn’t made himself understood.
‘Who are you talking about, Papa? What is it you have to tell?’
‘She has to know what happened … what I did.’
‘What do you mean? What are you talking about? Is this something to do with Mama?’
‘Where is she? Where is your mother?’
‘She’s not here.’ Emilia was annoyed with herself. She should never have mentioned her mother. It would only confuse the old man. ‘What do you want to tell me, Daddy?’ she said, more gently.
‘It’s important. I don’t have very long.’
‘That’s nonsense. You’re going to be fine. You just have to try and eat something. I could ask the matron for a sandwich, if you like. I can stay here with you while you have it.’
‘Magnus Pye …’
How extraordinary that he should have spoken that name. Of course he would have known Sir Magnus when he worked at Saxby-on-Avon. He would have treated the whole family. But why mention him now? Was Sir Magnus in some way connected with what had happened, whatever it was that her father wanted to explain? The trouble with dementia was that, as well as leaving huge gaps in the memory, it also jumbled things together. He might be thinking of something that had happened five years ago or five days ago. To him, they were the same.
‘What about Sir Magnus?’ she asked.
‘Who?’
‘Sir Magnus Pye. You mentioned him. There was something you wanted to tell me.’
But the vacant stare was back in his eyes. He had retreated into whatever world it was that he inhabited. Dr Emilia Redwing stayed with him for another twenty minutes but he barely noticed she was there. After that, she exchanged a few words with the matron and left.
She drove home with a nagging sense of worry but by the time she had parked the car, she had put her father out of her mind. Arthur had said that he would cook the supper that night. The two of them would probably watch Life With the Lyons on television and go to bed early. Dr Redwing had already seen the surgery appointments list for the following day and knew that she was going to be busy.
She opened the door and smelled burning. For a moment she was concerned but there was no smoke and the smell was somehow distant, more a memory of a fire than an actual one. She went into the kitchen and found Arthur sitting at the table – slumped there, actually – drinking whisky. He hadn’t even begun to cook the dinner and she knew at once that something was wrong. Arthur did not deal well with disappointment. Without meaning to, he somehow celebrated it. So what had happened? Dr Redwing looked past him and saw a painting, leaning against the wall, the wooden frame charred, the canvas largely eaten away. It was a portrait of a woman. He had clearly painted it – she recognised his style immediately – but it took her a moment or two longer to realise who it was.
‘Lady Pye,’ he muttered, answering her question before she had time to ask it.
‘What’s happened? Where did you find it?’
‘It was on a bonfire near the rose garden … at Pye Hall.’
‘What were you doing there?’
‘I was just walking. I cut through Dingle Dell and there was no one around so I thought I’d stroll through the gardens down to the main road. I don’t know what drew me to it. Maybe it was meant to be.’ He drank some more. He wasn’t drunk. He was using the whisky as a sort of prop. ‘Brent wasn’t around. There was no sign of anyone. Just the bloody painting thrown out with the rest of the trash.’