The House of Memories (9 page)

If Aidan had received that call from work an hour later, Walter’s nosebleed would have been better and he and Mum could have looked after Felix. If Mum had decided to celebrate Walter’s birthday in a different way, they wouldn’t have been in Canberra at all. Aidan would have had to take Felix into work with him. Felix would have been spoiled and entertained by one of the secretaries or junior researchers and he would have entertained and charmed them in return.

If.

Aidan was at the front door in his suit, briefcase in hand, car keys rattling, when the taxi dropped Jess off. Felix was on the living-room floor, playing with his blocks, all smiles, waving and laughing at this surprise visitor.

“You’re a lifesaver,” Aidan said to Jess. “I shouldn’t be long, two hours at the most. He’s had lunch, had his nap—all he’d love is some fresh air.”

“Me too. That plane smelled disgusting,” Jess said. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

Aidan told Jess I was in town, that there was no need to worry me, he should be back before I was, but if he wasn’t, it would be a nice surprise for me to find Jess there with Felix. Walter and Meredith might even have arrived by then too. It would be a welcoming committee, Aidan said.

Jess took Felix to the park two streets away. Felix loved the park. He loved the swings, the slippery dip, the climbing frame and the sandpit. Most of all, he loved the small nature reserve beside the playground. There was a fence running along the boundary, separating the tended trees from the bushland. If we had time, we’d lift him up, hold him tightly around the waist, and he would inch his way like a little tightrope walker along the top rail of the fence, laughing so hard that we’d soon be laughing too.

He was only twenty months old. Not big enough to climb a fence on his own. Not yet. Not without one of us holding him. He was a great walker, and he had good balance, but he was only twenty months old.

Aidan told me that Jess told him that as they were walking back toward home, Felix ran to the fence beside the nature reserve and he insisted, he yelled, until she lifted him up and walked him along the fence. She’d been with us on a previous trip, seen us do it, knew what he wanted. Three times they did it, one end of the rail to the other, back, back again.

It happened on the fourth time.

Her phone rang. It was her on-again, off-again boyfriend. They spoke. Beside her, Felix tugged at her skirt and tried to climb up the fence again. Still on the phone, Jess lifted Felix up, balanced his feet on the top of the fence and started walking. Felix laughed. She kept talking.

They were nearly at the end of the fence, two feet away at the most, when an insect flew at Jess’s face. A bee, a wasp, she couldn’t remember. She reacted, jumping back. She let go of Felix. Not her phone, but Felix. Felix fell. Not toward Jess. Not toward the playground. To the other side, the nature reserve, where there were tree roots, clods of earth and a large rock, hidden by leaves.

His head hit the rock at full impact.

He didn’t suffer, Aidan told me, again and again. “It was instant, Ella. He died instantly.”

He was falling while I was lying on a massage table, drifting to sounds of ocean music, inhaling lavender oil and thinking to myself that this was perhaps the closest I’d been to heaven. I was wrong. It was the closest I had ever been to hell.

Jess climbed over the fence, held Felix, tried to resuscitate him, phoned for an ambulance, shouted until passersby and other parents came to her. I know the details but I can’t repeat them again, because all I see are strangers, dozens of strangers, leaning over my son’s body, and it is too late, they are too late, and I am not there.

I wasn’t there when Jess called my mobile number, three times, hysterical.

I wasn’t there when she rang Aidan’s mobile, interrupted his meeting and told him what had happened.

I wasn’t there when Aidan arrived at the playground at the same time as the ambulance.

I wasn’t in the back of the ambulance when they screamed through the city streets, the paramedics still working on my son’s body.

I wasn’t there until my son had been dead for nearly an hour.

I can’t say what Felix looked like when I finally saw him. I don’t remember what he looked like. All I remember is holding him. Holding him, tight, tightly. Aidan held me, holding Felix. The three of us. But it was now just the two of us.

I didn’t see Jess. She was there at the hospital with Mum and Walter but I didn’t see her or talk to her. I didn’t blame her. Not then. I hadn’t heard the whole story by then.

I heard it the next day.

That’s when I started blaming her.

I haven’t stopped.

L
ucas’s house suddenly felt too quiet.

Keep busy.

I’d already tidied the kitchen. I knew from experience not to dare tidy Lucas’s withdrawing room too much, or any of the tutors’ rooms at all. I’d already unpacked. Already tidied my own room.

Think of something else. Observe. Distract.

I was in London. Staying with Lucas. Lucas had offered me a job.

Think about that.

When Lucas had said that he needed my help, I’d assumed he meant as a housekeeper. He knew I’d enjoyed doing the job in the past. I think he also knew I wanted to be as physically busy as possible. That I needed to be as busy as possible.

“Let me give you a bit of background first, Ella,” he’d said the night before. He had four students living with him and working as his tutors at the moment, he told me. One woman, three men.

“And there the problem lies,” he said. “I don’t know which one it is.”

I was confused. “Which one?”

He turned and checked the door was shut. It was. “You know, Ella, that my client list has changed? Gone up a gear, in modern terms?”

I nodded. It had started to happen when I was staying with him three years earlier. Originally, his tutors had spent ninety percent of their time coaching “normal” kids—the children of eager, middle-class parents who needed private tuition on top of the generally good education they got at school. The other ten percent had been anything but normal: the children of London’s super-rich—the millionaire executives, rock stars, film actors, Russian oligarchs. . . . Lucas had never advertised his services, relying on recommendations. In the past year or so, he explained, the word of mouth had increased, aided by the fact that three of his tutors’ charges had scored some of the best A-level results in the country. One of them had featured on the front page of the
Times
, after perfect grades in six different subjects. The phone calls started coming in that day. Not from the “normal” parents, but from the “other” group. His clients were now almost exclusively the superrich parents.

“It’s how people operate at that level of society,” Lucas said. “They all want what the other has, be it a new car, a villa in Tuscany or a brainy child.”

He could have taken on fifty more tutors—there was so much work on offer—but he didn’t want the extra work, or the extra lodgers. The more he said no, the more money he was offered. The more he looked around his house, the more he realized what he could do with that money.

“I did my sums, Ella. This house needs urgent renovation. A lot of it. The fees I could charge would refit the entire house. Add an extension, more bedrooms, more study areas. Two years of working with those clients, difficult or demanding as they might be, would buy me and my students a renovated house and five years of research time. I decided it was worth it.”

It wasn’t difficult to find very bright tutors. There was a waiting list of graduates wanting to spend a year living and working with Lucas. After a week of interviews, he took in four new lodgers, all in their late twenties, experts in languages, science, mathematics and physics. All four were studying for their PhD. All four spent every free moment from their own studies working as tutors. Two of the clients’ children had recently won academic awards. All of the parents reported improvements. All of the fees had been paid in full too. Lucas had already hired an architect. The renovation work was due to begin on the house at the end of summer.

It all sounded positive. I couldn’t see where I fitted in. “Do you want me to manage the renovations?”

“No. The architect will do that.”

“Look after the tutors’ timetables?”

“No, I do that myself. With help from Henrietta. She helps me do the students’ appraisals too.”

Henrietta wasn’t just a fellow lecturer at his university. She was also Lucas’s long-term girlfriend. I didn’t pursue that subject for now. “Then how can I help?”

“Ella, I need you to play detective.”

I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I have a thief in the house.”

I thought of the chaos on every floor. “How can you tell?”

“Not this house. Let me explain.”

He told me that the four tutors divided their time between the different clients’ houses, depending on what subjects were required.

“Much as I’d like to offer one person who can teach applied physics, advanced Mandarin, French, Spanish, classic literature and algebra, it doesn’t work like that. Each tutor has an area of excellence. So each of them visits different houses at different times.”

I knew that from my previous stay. Back then, Aidan had been Lucas’s language expert. He was fluent in French, German, Spanish and Italian, as well as his native Irish. Not that there’d been a great call for the Irish language among the upper-class children of London.

Lucas told me that two months earlier he’d received a phone call from a long-standing client. The man’s two oldest children had been coached into Cambridge by Lucas’s tutors. The third child, in her late teens, had her sights set on Yale. All four of Lucas’s current tutors were helping her on her way. Lucas wouldn’t have called the father a friend, but they had a long association.

“Your tutors haven’t noticed anyone or anything unusual in the house, have they?” the father asked. “It’s just that something has gone missing.”

The “something” was a small but valuable eighteenth-century maritime map. Over dinner, over breakfast, in casual encounters in the house, Lucas had carefully posed the question to his four lodgers. No, no one had noticed anything untoward, Lucas reported back.

“It’s just disappeared into thin air,” the client said.

Three weeks later, Lucas received another phone call, a similar question from a different client. Discreet, not wanting to create alarm. A diamond necklace had disappeared. The client suspected one of their domestic staff. Had the tutors noticed or overheard anything, by chance? Lucas asked again. The tutors hadn’t.

Ten days later, a third call. This time, it was a small sculpture. A valuable figurine. Once again, he asked his tutors if they’d seen or heard anything. Nothing, they assured him.

Two weeks previously, a fourth call. An antique ring was missing. No, the tutors hadn’t seen a thing.

Four clients, four thefts in two months. Lucas knew that his clients didn’t speak to one another. His tutors’ contracts had confidentiality clauses. But it was too coincidental for all four clients to be burgled around the same time. There had to be a connection. And the only common thread was Lucas’s tutors.

“Did they all call the police?” I asked.

“Two of them did, yes. The police reviewed CCTV footage where possible and interviewed everyone, including my tutors. All without result.”

“And the other two clients?”

Lucas hesitated. “My understanding was they didn’t want the police involved.”

“The goods were already stolen property?”

“More likely bought on the black market, or undeclared taxwise. I didn’t ask for more details. Where they’d come from didn’t change the fact they’d all gone missing.”

“And you seriously think it’s one of your tutors?”

“I wanted to think it was impossible. I’ve been sending tutors into houses all around London for more than twenty years. Apart from one or two inappropriate love affairs, there’s never been any trouble. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized the thief could be one of them. That’s what I want you to find out. That’s the job I’m offering you.”

I still thought he was joking. “Of course, Lucas. Shall I start now? Search their rooms?”

“I’ve already tried that. I didn’t find anything.”

“You searched their rooms? Seriously? Lucas!”

“Not very seriously.” A pause. “I opened their bedroom doors and looked in. Do you see my dilemma, Ella? I can’t suddenly turn into a detective. Start asking them loaded questions, asking what they do in their spare time, whether they have any contacts on the black market. I’ve always left my tutors alone and they leave me alone. That’s why it works so well. I can’t call in the police myself either. If one hint gets out that my tutors are unreliable, or, worse, that they are thieves, I’ll never get another client again. Which means the renovations stop before they’ve started, my own research finishes, the tutors’ work finishes—”

“If you’re sure it’s one of these four, couldn’t you just cancel their contracts? Get new tutors in?”

He shook his head. “We’re approaching exams, a crucial time for everyone. And I don’t want to cancel their contracts. These four are quite brilliant—brilliant minds and brilliant teachers. Before all this arose, I was getting only positive feedback about them from my clients.”

“But if it
is
one of them, you need to know.”

“Of course I do. But I can’t solve it myself, Ella. Frankly, I’m too busy with my own work. I don’t have time for this. I asked Henrietta if she would help but she said no. She’s too busy, with her own studies, her own life—”

Her own husband, I thought.

“But you, Ella—”

We both knew what he meant. I had all the time in the world.

He placed both hands on the table, all business now. “On the surface, I’d be hiring you as my cook and housekeeper again. But mostly I want you to talk to the tutors, get to know them, ask all the questions you can. Is one of them having financial problems? Or had a sudden windfall? I need you to find out whatever you can.”

“But where do I start? Mention it casually over breakfast? ‘Good morning. Do any of you happen to know where I could get a cheap diamond necklace?’”

Lucas didn’t even smile. “Please, Ella. You know what this house means to me.”

I did know. More especially, I knew how much his research and his students meant to him. I promised I’d sleep on it. He told me he’d leave information about the four tutors in the attic. He used it as his archive room these days. I could “review their files” as a starting point, he said.

I decided to look at the files now. I needed something to  do. It had started to rain outside, the dry weather short-lived. I took the five flights of stairs up to the attic. I had to hold on tight to the banister rail; the final stairs were so steep. I wondered whether Lucas’s renovations would mean changes up here. I hoped not. I’d always thought it was the most magical part of the house.

It was still a mess, of course. There were still foxes, books and paperwork everywhere. All that was missing was the bed. Lucas now slept in one of the downstairs bedrooms. I wondered whether Henrietta had insisted.

The four files were on top of a pile of folders on the desk. Before I sat down to read them, I opened the skylight window and poked my head out, breathing in the cool London air, enjoying the feel of the light mist of rain on my face. I loved the view. It was nothing spectacular, but it was so typically London: rooftops, tips of trees, brickwork and chimneys. If I leaned out as far as possible, I could even get a glimpse of Hyde Park.

“Hello, little fellow,” I said to the stuffed baby fox as I took a seat at the desk. He looked even worse for wear than he had all those years ago. I gave him a gentle pat. All the fox memorabilia I remembered from my first visit was still here—the paintings, the lampshade, the candlestick. I noticed two new items—an embroidered fox-design cushion and a small porcelain fox striking an inquiring pose. Gifts from Henrietta, I presumed. Lucas had told me she was the reason the baby fox I’d tried to liberate was so precious. It was the first gift she’d given him.

I opened the files and started to read. All the information was perfectly ordered—photograph, brief biography, academic record. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Young academics applying for a position like this would be sure to present themselves as impressively as possible.

I made notes as I read through the files. Forty minutes later, I was finished. I’d written four lines.

Mark, 27, maths, Brighton

Harry, 28, science, Liverpool

Peggy, 28, English literature, Newcastle

Darin, 29, languages, born Iran, raised Devon

That was it. Some detective I was. I’d gleaned basic facts and nothing more. I may as well have gone “eenymeenymineymo” to pick my thief.

I had a moment of feeling as though I were outside myself, looking down. What was I doing, sitting up here in Lucas’s attic, reading private information about four strangers, seriously considering a job like this? I could say no, of course. I knew that. I could say, I’m very sorry, Lucas; thank you for the job offer but I need to leave again.

But where would I go next? What could I do? Lucas’s invitation to visit him had come at exactly the right time. I had started to feel unsettled in Western Australia. The long hours and hard work there were all I’d needed in the beginning, but recently something had changed. I’d felt a restlessness. A yearning. A subtle shift in how I was feeling.

I thought, as I had many times, of the counselor explaining the stages of grief to me. I’d had to leave, midway through our second session. I couldn’t believe she was telling me that what I was feeling was something ordinary. That every single person who lost someone they loved, after an illness, in an accident, or to old age, went through exactly the same phases. It seemed impossible, I’d said to her. How could she compare what I was experiencing, this chasm, this ache, this roaring pain, to the grief someone might feel after their elderly father died, or their grandmother, after long lives, after the privilege of years with their families?

She kept her voice calm.

“It’s not a grief contest, Ella. I’m not saying one is worse than the other. You’ve misunderstood me. What I’m saying is you all go through similar feelings, of shock and denial and—”

“Who died for you?” Afterward, I’d felt ashamed of my rudeness.

“This isn’t about me, Ella. I haven’t been in your situation, but—”

“Then you can’t know how I feel. You can’t help me. I’m sorry, but you can’t.” I picked up my bag.

“Ella, please—”

The words burst out of me. “My son, Felix, was just twenty months old. His whole life was ahead of him. He could have been anything, done everything. He would have had the most wonderful, joyful, action-packed, glorious life, if my half sister, if my husband hadn’t—”