Our beloved sister, our child.

‘My only purpose is to look after Adeline, to protect her.’ Those had been Camilla’s words, at the interview, or something close to that, that sentiment. So when Adeline dies, where does all that passion, that purpose, go? Into the ritual, the memory. It was a kind of collective madness. But grief makes people do strange things, and how different was it, really, when compared to other rituals around the world, in different cultures and different times? Societies, no matter how big or small, always had to account for and honour the dead, whether as ghosts, souls in heaven, or acts of remembrance.

On page three, Mary Estelle took charge of the soul’s passage through the underworld: May she travel safely, with these gifts to aid her journey …

And the medal, the coin, the brooch, the cigarette card and the lipstick were all mentioned, each relative casting their own spell over the chosen object: magical charms.

Hobbes skimmed the pages a few more times, seeking clarity. Then he picked up the playbill for The Moon Awakes. Was it significant? Why this particular bill, on that wall, the only decoration in the room? Why was Adeline associated so much with the play’s leading role, Anna Kreeley? He read again the message that Mary Estelle had written on the photograph: With all my love. No recipient mentioned. And then the actress’s signature, and then the date – the date of Adeline’s death.

There was a slight tear in one corner of the playbill, and something was visible beneath the tear. It was only a tiny speck of colour. Hobbes turned the frame over and removed the back. There was another image inside, hidden behind the first, this one also a playbill, and also celebrating The Moon Awakes. But immediately he could see that this was a different version of the play, from a different year. It was unsigned. And there was something wrong with Mary Estelle’s face. No, not wrong exactly but …

And he remembered one more thing, a line that DC Fairfax had spoken, that evening in Richmond Park, when he’d turned up drunk at the scene of the crime. Hobbes had asked him how he’d got past the officer on duty, and Fairfax had answered in a slur, ‘There’s more than one way through the woods.’

And there was. Hobbes was sure of it.

Part Four

THREE DAYS LATER

A House of Twigs

It didn’t take him long to find the street and the house number. He parked on the opposite side and waited for a few minutes. Hobbes was nervous, and he wasn’t sure why, exactly. There was so much at stake, and here he was, following a hunch. Nothing more. And that was how he chose to view it, as something tentative, fragile.

In fact, he very nearly turned away. He almost started the car and set off again, back to Richmond, and his little flat. It was five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. Grey skies, low and threatening. Really, this could wait until the morning, but the day had dragged out, and he felt at a loss. And still frustrated, as they waited for the autopsy results. He needed proof! Proof of identity. Only then would he lay this case to rest. And so, instead of taking it easy and putting his feet up, he was following a lead, one that probably went nowhere. He could just imagine Meg Latimer having a right old laugh at his expense.