“Yet! It should be,” Penny declared before bustling off. “I’m going to write a letter.”
Once she was alone with her mother and Duchess, Ellie said, “Really, you were great. I bet it’s all people are talking about up and down the country, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the phone rings.”
Carolyn looked at the phone and stared for a while before sighing. “Well, there’s time. Let the nation see my turn, then the bookings will come.” She softened and tucked some hair behind Ellie’s ear. “If you want your old room back, I’ll get rid of the pilates machine. As long as I can keep eating meat. I had a cut of sirloin steak so tender this afternoon that I simply couldn’t.”
“You don’t have to get rid of anything, Mum,” Ellie said, laughing as Duchess jumped up at her. “I appreciate the offer, but I’m going to stay with Gran for a bit, then I’ll see.”
“Good idea,” Carolyn said, producing something from behind the sofa. “Seems like the perfect time to give you this. Welcome home.”
Ellie ripped open the satin beige wrapping paper, revealing a framed picture of her mother as the corpse on Casualty. The image was signed in silver pen, capturing Carolyn’s dramatic portrayal of death in all its glory.
“Wow... it’s... my mother... dead in a frame...” Ellie said, struggling to find the right words. “It’s… quite big.”
“I arranged for the producers to send it early, especially.” Carolyn beamed, tapping the silver signature. “And I signed it. For helping me rehearse for my big comeback. When this leads to more roles, this might be worth something.”
Ellie stared at the picture, a mix of emotions swirling inside her. The absurdity of the situation struck her, and she couldn’t help but love it. This was her mother, through and through. Carolyn Swan’s world might have been strange, but Ellie was glad to be back in it, even if from a distance.
“I’m sure it will be, and I’ll help you rehearse anytime.” Ellie placed the frame back behind the sofa before grabbing Duchess’s lead off the hook in the hallway. “Walkies. Let’s go for a wander around the village and see if you like the same spots as your predecessor.”
As Ellie bent to clip the lead onto Duchess’s collar by the door, Carolyn called out from the kitchen, her arms folded and scratching her neck. “Ellie? Nobody knows, do they? About the sculpture?”
“I don’t think so,” she replied, straightening up. “But trust me, you can’t walk around this place looking over your shoulder for ghosts all the time. I don’t think the village is big enough.”
Ellie left her mother’s house, Duchess trotting beside her. As they crossed the village green, she spotted a small group gathered outside Blackwood House, led by Sylvia Fortescue. Following Duchess, Ellie made her way over, wondering if Sylvia’s ears had been burning from the question Carolyn had just asked. Ellie almost wanted to check if Sylvia had revealed which local fell for James’s modelling request but decided against it, trusting that Sylvia had kept her word.
“What’s going on?” Ellie asked. “I hope there isn’t another twist.”
Sylvia turned to her, eyes gleaming with excitement. “Only a good one,” she said, making space for Ellie to see.
Through the black gates of Blackwood House, cardboard boxes and bags joined the weeds poking up through the cracks in the small courtyard. Paint-splattered sheets poked out of some boxes, while lumpy, twisted sculptures waited for their orders. More were being brought out by a crew of removal men, their UV ink hidden. What had James said the meaning was? The difference between reality and ego? Given that her mother was the subject, she wondered if the dull version was reality and the glow-in-the-dark version was her mother’s ego. Among them, James Blackwood ran back and forth, crying at them to stop. She could have asked him, but she didn’t care enough to know. She was happy to see the back of him and his sculptures.
Up in the red window, Ellie caught sight of someone watching, the window slightly open. It was young Charles Blackwood, looking out at the scene below as he pushed up his glasses.
“It seems young Charles Blackwood is putting Uncle James in his place,” Sylvia said, rocking back on her heels, unable to contain her excitement. “There’s a rumour there was a second will reading in the middle of the night. The real will. A will meant to be read after the three parts of the manuscript were handed over and the family had battled it out. And I heard it said something like, ‘if any of you are still alive, you may split what’s left between you and ruin yourselves at leisure.’”
Ellie raised her eyebrows, surprised to hear that Edmund still had more to say from beyond the grave. “So, why is James being kicked out?”
“Let’s walk and talk,” Sylvia said, waving goodbye to the women she’d been chattering with. “I’ve seen enough of the rubbish collection.”
Ellie followed Sylvia across the village green, Duchess trotting by Ellie’s feet. The setting sun cast stretching shadows as they walked, the grass dry after a week without a drop of rain.
“There was another line in the new will,” Sylvia continued as they passed St. Mary’s Church, “that excluded James from all inheritance. Edmund wrote that Thomas was his favourite, and he couldn’t stand him, so that said something about James. It seems the book was just for them to read to... teach them a lesson?”
“His final lessons to the children he spoiled. Edmund knew they’d crack the riddles, and he even satirised that they’d kill each other for it in the ending I read, but I don’t know if that’s how he really thought it would end. Like the worthless necklace in his story. Perhaps he thought they’d fight for it.”
“Exposing their true selves in the process.” Sylvia nodded eagerly. “Except none of them did kill for it, did they? They all wanted the manuscript, but only Thomas had the guts to go and get it, and that was only after cowardly pushing his son to do it. But Charles gets the last laugh. He’s the only one alive left to inherit.”
They rounded the bend leading towards the school, pausing as they approached the bench. Ellie’s gaze fell on the flowers she’d left there that morning, a lump forming in her throat.
Sylvia’s voice softened. “Oh, dear, will you be alright?”
Ellie took a deep breath. “There’s still a lot more to unpack. A lot, but... I don’t want to run away anymore. That’s a start.”
“A start indeed,” Sylvia agreed, then added with a hint of her usual enthusiasm, “And have you seen the house prices and lack of availability around here? People don’t want to leave, so if you need to find somewhere, come to me first. I know every estate agent in the area.”
Ellie smiled, grateful for Sylvia’s offer. “Thank you, but I think I’ll keep things simple for a while. The shop is going to keep my hands full.”
“So, Maggie isn’t selling?” Sylvia whispered. “Because that’s what she’s been telling people on South Street all day.”
“We’ll see.”
“Well, it’s exciting regardless!”
Sylvia pulled Ellie in close as they followed the bend around to the street behind the cottages. There was the old mechanics and the community junction centre, along with another café—this one also part farmers’ market, along with the post office, and the one chain shop in the village—the supermarket. Funny what she’d missed avoiding that bench.
“Fresh blood in the village finally!” Sylvia continued as they followed the street back towards the museum on the corner. “And who cares what people were saying about your past when you first arrived. After flying over the wall of Blackwood House and bagging a murderer, people are far too busy talking about your present. You’re the hero of the hour.”
The idea of being the centre of attention in Meadowfield, even for positive reasons, felt strange after years of avoiding the village’s scrutiny; she knew there would always be people who blamed her, linking the heartbreak to the crash. At least, there had been. It had taken Ellie and Penny hours to scrub the ‘Murderer!’ spray paint that had appeared on their house the day after the crash, and the next day, Maggie bundled Ellie into a taxi with the last minute university place she’d bagged for her using her old teaching contacts.
“The only problem is, Eleanor,” Maggie had said while she was stuffing her clothes into her bag in her old bedroom now occupied by a pilates machine, “it’s in Cardiff. I don’t know what’s in Cardiff, but the course came highly recommended.”
“Cardiff?” she’d said, shaking her head, not caring as she unzipped a second duffel bag. “I spent three weeks there when Mum went to film Celebrities Live in a Mine. I liked it. Maybe I’ll pick up a new accent? Or I’ll get a job in TV?”
Behind Luke’s funeral and the day she called off the wedding, that day had been one of the hardest of her life, to start with. By sundown, she’d been sharing a Chinese takeaway with four others from all over the country in their cramped communal living area, forcing themselves through ice breakers to avoid the awkward silence.
“Oh, Eleanor!” Shannon had said. “Pretty name.”
“Actually, do you girls mind calling me ‘Ellie’?” she’d said, and she hadn’t needed to think about it beforehand. “I feel like trying something different.”
