Down to the Roots

It was half past six in the evening by the time they got a team in place to start digging up the cellar floor at Bridlemere. Hobbes watched the first cracks appear in the concrete, but the dust got into his throat and he had to make his way back upstairs. He sat waiting with Latimer in the living room. The flowery dress had been taken up from the floor, along with the shoes and the scarf – most probably Nicholas Graves had cleared them away. He would have to have words with him, about not destroying the clothing, just in case they found anything.

Hobbes stood up and started walking back and forth.

Someone was hidden down there. He knew he was right.

The sound of the drill came up through the floorboards and the room trembled a little. Dust vibrated minutely on the tabletop. Many of the framed pictures had shifted on the walls and were now tilted at different angles. A family askew. The whole house was settling into a new shape at this first sign of disturbance in years, and it suddenly felt like a very fragile structure.

How long had she rested there, this Adeline? How long buried beneath? What kind of state would her body be in? Bones, probably. Bones and dust and a few strands of hair. Or perhaps mummified. Yes, he could see it all quite clearly in his mind’s eye.

‘Christ!’

‘What’s wrong?’ Latimer asked.

‘I’m willing someone to be down there, buried. Which means …’

‘Sure, you’re hoping that some poor woman’s been murdered.’

He paced on.

‘Sit down, for God’s sake, Guv. You’re making me nervous.’

Hobbes turned to stare at her. ‘Nervous? Of what?’

‘Of the house falling down around us. What do you think?’

But Hobbes couldn’t keep still.

‘Make sure photographs are taken.’

Latimer shook her head. ‘You don’t have to remind—’

‘Of everything. Every single bloody thing! Go on, check on them.’

She left the room. He stayed there for a few moments longer, but didn’t know how to keep still. He walked into the corridor. The sound of the workmen was even louder here, the air turning to fog at the top of the cellar stairs. He moved into the kitchen, where Nicholas Graves was waiting. He was sitting at the table drinking a cup of tea. After each sip he placed a saucer on top of the cup to keep it free of dust.

He looked strangely calm, now the digging had begun, all thoughts of his dead father apparently put aside. But his face belied him, when Hobbes asked if he’d removed all the dresses.

‘Yes. All of them.’ His eyes darted to the kitchen table, where his father had taken his last breaths.

‘You haven’t thrown them away, I hope?’

‘I was going to.’

‘Don’t.’ It was an order. ‘Not yet.’

‘They’re in the wardrobe. Third floor. Blood and all.’

‘Good.’

Nicholas gave Hobbes a cold look, but then relented. His expression had no hold on his tired skin. Memories kept returning, taking charge. And Hobbes noticed a set of photographs on the tabletop. He decided to help him along.