Eloise (31 page)

‘I stayed in St Mawes, at the Tresanton Hotel. It was beautiful, fulfilled all my old dreams about Cornwall, but I couldn’t resist going back to Fowey, just for one day. I mooched about the place, had a pint sitting by the harbour, thinking about old times. Then I walked over to Readymoney. And that’s where I found her, on the beach. She was sunbathing on a towel. Her body was pale by Australian standards, white really, but perfect. My heart flipped over as soon as I saw her. I didn’t know if I should talk to her or not. I’d made up my mind to go, but she became aware of me. She stared, and sat up. She was frowning at me; then she took off her sunglasses and said, “Jack? Can that really be you?” I could have walked away at that point, told her she’d mistaken me for someone else. But I didn’t. She mesmerised me.

‘Anyway, the upshot was that I went back to her house. Ted was away, painting in St Ives. We talked and talked. She was desperate for news about our daughter, Isabella. I told her about Arthur, and she was astonished to hear she had a grandson. She said Izzie must have had him really young, just
like her. I said yes, she was a teenage mother, but very happily married to a lovely guy who adored her and their child. Eloise smiled. “I’m glad to hear it,” she said. And then, “Lucky her.” I told her about my failed marriage, she told me about Ted. I sensed, even at that point, that there were difficulties, but she didn’t go into detail. Eventually, I needed to get out of the marital home. I felt almost embarrassed to be there. Obviously I didn’t belong. But I couldn’t resist asking to see her again, on neutral territory. She had stirred me more than I could ever have imagined.’

‘And did you?’ I asked.

‘See her again? Yes. She agreed to come to my hotel for dinner that night. I think even then we both knew what was going to happen. Anyway, she felt safe at the Tresanton. Nobody knew her down there, and, after a couple of drinks, she completely opened up. She told me she was desperate to have a baby, and that she and Ted had been trying for a long time. They’d had various tests, and the doctors said Ellie was ovulating normally and should have no problem getting pregnant. But it wasn’t happening, so at the fertility clinic they suggested Ted should have a sperm test. She told me Ted was furious when she told him, and refused point-blank at first. Thought it was a slur on his virility. But eventually, very sulkily, he agreed.’

Jack sighed, and settled back against the churchyard wall.

‘The doctors said he had a very low sperm count. He wasn’t completely infertile, but it was obvious it would be very difficult for them to conceive naturally. They suggested the two of them should go for an assisted pregnancy. IVF, or an even more sophisticated procedure which would mean Ted’s sperm was injected directly into Ellie’s egg, and then placed inside her womb. Ted went berserk, according to Eloise. He simply couldn’t face the prospect that he was infertile. It went against every idea he had of himself. Brilliant artist and successful surfer-dude. He refused to believe he couldn’t impregnate his wife. And, when I bumped into her, that was there they were at.’

I knew what was coming. He looked at me ruefully.

‘Yes, you’ve got it. Eloise spent the night with me at my hotel. We made love many times. She was intoxicating. But the next morning, she said she had to get back to Fowey. Ted was due back later that same day.’

‘But didn’t you try to persuade her to stay with you?’

‘I told her I loved her, and she said she loved me too. But my roots, back then, were in Australia. My whole career was there, not to mention Isabella and Arthur. And she said she could never leave her mother alone. So we parted. It was very hard. In fact, it was devastating.’

‘So that was it? You went back to Australia? Did she write to you? Did she tell you she was pregnant?’

‘No. I never heard from Eloise again. I thought of her, all the time. I even wondered if I should come back to Cornwall, to try to persuade her to be with me. But I didn’t think I had the right to interfere in her life. I figured, if she wanted me, she’d get in touch.’

‘So how did you find out about Rose and Violet?’

‘Eloise told her mother that she’d heard from some acquaintance in Oz that Isabella had a son. She said she wanted to make some provision for them in her will. By that time, she knew she was ill. So Juliana moved heaven and earth to get in contact with me in Australia. She never told me Ellie had cancer, but she did say she’d had twin daughters.’

‘And you realised they were yours?’

‘Well, calculating that they’d been born nearly nine months after she and I made love, I immediately thought they might be mine. But then again, she and Ted were having fertility treatment, which might have succeeded at the same time.’

‘But didn’t she tell you Ted had refused treatment?’

‘Yes, but I never heard from her again. As far as I was concerned, she could have got pregnant by Ted as soon as we parted. Anyway, Cathy, to be honest I tried not to think about it too much. It was too complicated, too messy, and it hurt.’

‘So you still don’t really know if the girls are yours? You still think there’s a possibility they might be Ted’s?’

Jack hesitated. ‘I suppose you’re right. Of course I have no absolute proof. But as soon as I saw them I felt … ’ He paused, then continued. ‘I felt I recognised them somehow. I felt I knew them.’

I closed my eyes. Eloise, I thought. Please love, help me to make sense of this. Here we are, beside your grave. We’ve been through hell over the last couple of days. I’ve been through hell for months. Can’t you give me some answer, a symbol at least, to show the worst is over, some explanation at least, for Christ’s sake?

No answer. Eloise came when she needed me, not when I needed her.

We got up, left the grave and the churchyard, and headed down to the beach. Sam, Tom, Evie and Arthur were swimming in the sea. Jack sprinted down to the water’s edge. ‘When you’re ready, kids, it’s time for lunch. Get dry and join us at the café.’

We had lunch at the picnic tables on the beach. The four young ones seemed almost inappropriately playful, given Ted’s death yesterday. But I sensed they were relieved that the crisis, which Ted had initiated, had brought so destructively into their lives, with his rage and hatred, was over. And that the little girls were safe. I don’t think my children ever warmed to Ted, not really. They were hugely fond of Eloise, and her
daughters, but Ted was always slightly aloof. He had thought highly of himself, his talent. He had tolerated Cornwall, because its light let him paint beautiful pictures, but really he did not have an artist’s temperament. He wanted to be a celebrity, he wanted to be feted and adored. He wanted his beautiful wife to be an accessory. His rich, glamorous, gorgeous woman was there to shine a light on his success.

But Eloise was never going to be that woman. And then, she got cancer.

Which actually would have fitted into Ted’s celebrity life just fine. Brilliant artist has mortally ill wife. How tragic, how romantic.

All this was going through my head during lunch, but I felt bad. Ted had behaved appallingly since Eloise’s death, but he was a bereaved husband. And Eloise had betrayed him, just as he had told Chris. Except he didn’t know about Jack, didn’t know that his daughters may not have been his.

Or did he?

We’d finished lunch, and the kids had gone back their beach games, when Chris crunched his way down the gravel path from the lane to our table. He looked grim.

‘I need to talk to you both. I haven’t told you everything that happened yesterday. But I don’t think we should discuss it here, on the beach, with the kids around. Can we go back to the cottage?’

This time I went down to the small squelchy sand puddles which marked the start of the ocean. I grabbed Sam’s attention and told him we were going home. He splashed out of the shallow waves.

‘Are you OK, Mum?’

‘I’m fine, sweetie. It’s just that Dad wants to tell us about the police’s view about Ted’s drowning, and it might be a bit upsetting for Eve and Tom. So would you keep them here for another hour or so?’

‘OK. So long as you promise to tell me everything when we get back.’

‘Everything, Sam. Thanks.’

As I left the paddling zone, I heard Evie yelling, ‘I love you, Mum.’ Her perennial sign-off.

The three of us walked up the lane and into our cottage. Chris hadn’t said a word since we left the beach. I felt nervous as we entered our sitting room. I knew I was about to hear something bad. On the other hand, what could be worse than Eloise’s visitations, which had almost destroyed my sanity and my marriage?

Chris sat us down, and poured drinks for all of us. Jesus, I thought, this is not good. Chris was a bit of a puritan. He certainly didn’t splash the alcohol around.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I went over to Plymouth this morning and
identified Ted’s body. Not nice. But definitely him. And then I went back to their house in Fowey, with the Superintendent. Father Pete told you Ted left a suicide note on the kitchen table. But he didn’t tell you what he said. The Superintendent showed me. It was addressed to Juliana, and it was cruel. It wasn’t just about killing himself, and the way he intended to do it. He wrote all the stuff we know, that Eloise had cut him out of her will, that his share of her money had been left to Arthur and Isabella. But he also wrote something else. He wrote that when Eloise told him, shortly before she died, that she’d had a baby when she was thirteen years old, he felt betrayed. Yes, I know it’s ridiculous. He didn’t even know her then. But it was when he heard about Isabella and also Arthur, and her decision to include them in her will, that he finally flipped.’

Chris paused. ‘Cathy, I’m really sorry to tell you this. But in his suicide note, Ted said he and Eloise had a terrible row about Arthur. And he confessed that he was so angry with her that he tampered with her drugs. We all know that she was on heavy medication, pain relief for the cancer. But Ted, in his fury, made sure she took too much morphine. That’s what killed her. Prematurely, although of course she was going to die anyway, sooner rather than later.’

I was staggered. I collapsed onto my little yellow sofa, the place where I’d spent so many hours daydreaming about
Eloise, our children, and our wonderful life here in Cornwall.

‘No. Not that. Surely not that? Ted killed his own wife? He murdered her?’

‘Yes. I’m terribly sorry, darling. I know how horrific this sounds.’

‘But why? Why in God’s name, when she was so close to death anyway?’

‘It was about money, as everything seemed to be for Ted. He’d hoped she hadn’t got round to putting Arthur and Isabella in her will, but she had.’

‘So he killed her for nothing? Just to stop her leaving money to her daughter and grandson?’

‘Yes. I’m afraid so.’

‘Poor, poor Eloise. Oh my poor little friend. He killed her because she was trying to do the right thing by her own children and grandson, and when he found out, he was so angry about losing money that wasn’t even rightfully his that he felt he was entitled to murder her. For profit. That poor girl who had spent so many years trying to face up to her own mortality, who had suffered so much, who felt such grief about leaving her little girls. And that bastard took her life out of malice, anger and avarice. What a disgusting, horrible man he was.’

‘Yes. And after her death, when the solicitor told him that
not only were Arthur and Isabella going to inherit a lot of her money, but that he, Ted, was to get nothing but the house and what he called “a paltry allowance” to look after the girls, well, in his words, that’s what drove him mad.’

I looked at Chris.

‘Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? Because, God knows, he got what he deserved. Talk about Karma. But why did he suddenly decide, months after her death, to kill himself and take the children with him?’

‘Because,’ Chris said, ‘he found something. Something that drove him over the edge. He discovered that he wasn’t their father.’

I glanced at Jack. How could Ted know? Even Jack was not a hundred per cent sure. He looked at me and shook his head, indicating that it was as much a mystery to him as it was to us.

Chris continued. ‘Cathy, I know how much you loved Eloise. But she did something to Ted that most men would feel is unforgiveable. Not only did she have an affair, but she told Ted their two little girls were his. When he found out, just a couple of days ago, that they were someone else’s, he simply couldn’t face bringing them up. And I’m not really surprised, given the state of mind he was already in.’

I bristled. ‘Are you trying to make excuses for him? Because don’t, Chris. Eloise was my best friend, and Ted was
a murdering bastard. Are you really saying that Eloise deserved what he did to her? And that you’re not surprised he tried to kill the girls as well as himself, because he found out she’d had an affair? I know you’re a professional psychiatrist, but please don’t talk to me like this.’

Chris took my hand. ‘Darling, I’m not making any excuses for him. What he did to Eloise was vile. And what he tried to do to the children was unforgiveable. All I’m saying is given his state of mind, finding out they weren’t his finally took what was left of his sane, rational mind away from him.’

‘But how? How did he find out? Did Juliana know? Did she tell him?’

Chris shook his head.

‘No. Juliana had no idea. This is going to be a terrible shock for her. The only person who knew was Eloise herself. Until Ted found something. He was in a terrible state, as we knew. Furious with her and with himself for killing her.’

‘Only because he didn’t get a bigger share of her money. He killed her for her fortune, only to find she hadn’t left him any. He wouldn’t have been furious with himself if she had. He would have been glad he’d got away with it. He was a gold-digger, pure and simple.’

‘I agree with you. Remember I told you he wasn’t a nice
man? But still, I think any man who found out that he’d been deceived about the paternity of his kids would find it hard to forgive.’

Jack looked Chris straight in the eye.

‘You know, don’t you? You know that Rose and Violet are mine?’