‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. The story I want to write is how and why Dominic Blake disappeared. And to know that we have to know a bit more about him. Because the answer to his death is right there in his life.’
She had to admit that what he was saying made sense.
‘The answer could be something as simple as getting lost and sick in the jungle.’
‘Perhaps,’ he said, settling back into his chair.
‘I can’t get involved in this, Elliot. I feel as if I know Rosamund now.’
‘Imagine you are Rosamund Bailey,’ said Elliot slowly. ‘You’re old, you’re wise, but you never knew what happened to the love of your life. Wouldn’t you want to find out? Wouldn’t you want someone younger, more dynamic, someone with twenty-first-century technology, resources and money to help you find out the one thing that has eluded you, tormented you, for fifty years?’
‘Elliot, you should be on the stage,’ she replied more playfully.
‘I’m serious, Abby,’ he said.
‘All right,’ she said, ‘I’ll do it.’ As she spoke, she felt a rush of excitement, and something else – an unfamiliar sense of freedom, of abandon even. She hadn’t done anything impulsive for years. It felt good.
‘Excellent,’ said Elliot, offering her his hand. She took it, and felt a current of complicity run between them.
‘Welcome aboard, partner. You won’t regret it.’
Chapter Fourteen
It was a fine morning as Abby walked up the hill, the sunlight slanting through the trees to her right, laying zebra stripes of shadow across the graveyard behind the railings. All she knew about Highgate Cemetery was that Karl Marx was buried there, but it looked overgrown and abandoned, with headstones leaning at crazy angles and the odd ivy-trailed angel peeping out from the undergrowth.
Don’t think I’d want to walk through there at night, she thought, crossing the road. And I wouldn’t want to live overlooking it either. She glanced up at the Victorian flats running at right angles to the graveyard; she supposed they preferred the view of tombs poking out from the trees to that of another building blocking their view of London. And what a view, she thought, turning to look
as she reached the crest of the hill. The whole city was laid out there below her, looking surprisingly flat and curiously peaceful from this distance. She supposed that was why Rosamund Bailey had decided to move here. After a lifetime fighting her way through the choked streets of London, this comparatively sleepy backwater would seem like the countryside.
Catching her breath, Abby crossed the cute little square in front of her and walked up to the first house on the left, knocking on the red front door.
She wasn’t exactly looking forward to this – she wasn’t a naturally confident person – but if she was going to start this new career as a researcher, she needed to jump in at the deep end. She was raising her hand to knock again when the door swung open.
‘Abby,’ said Rosamund, beckoning her inside. ‘Come in, come in.’
She was led along a dark corridor towards the back of the house, where it opened on to a large kitchen.
‘Take a seat,’ said Rosamund, gesturing to the rustic table. ‘I was just making tea, and there’s some cake as well if you fancy it. Not home-made, but I have my book group coming round this evening, and they get very tetchy if there are no carbohydrates on offer.’
Abby almost sat on the cat that was curled up on the chair. It sprang off with an angry meow.
‘Harold, shoo.’
‘Lovely, thank you,’ she said, sitting down.
She rummaged in her tote bag and pulled out a large hard-backed envelope.
‘The photograph,’ she said with embarrassment. ‘It’s not an official one so you can’t sell it or anything. But it will go nicely in a frame.’
‘I won’t sell it,’ Rosamund said, putting a hand gently on top of the envelope.
She picked up her cup of tea.
‘I assume the exhibition did well. I saw the piece in the Chronicle.’
Abby was waiting for a caustic remark. Rosamund had got a name check in Elliot’s Great British Explorers article. It had only been a passing mention, but it had gone against her express wishes, and Abby didn’t think she was the sort to take it lying down.
‘You don’t work for the press any more, do you?’ she said after a minute.