‘The last of his family to live here, before he formed a charitable trust and it became what it is today.’
‘Can you explain it?’ He studied Lawrence intensely, hoping for any sign, any reasonable explanation, that he wasn’t losinghis mind.
‘Yes,’ said Lawrence, ‘of course I can explain it. Oh damn! I’ve forgotten the antiseptic cream! ‘Hold that thought. I’ll be back in a jiffy.’
Jake sighed and turned his attention back to the painting. A small gold plate fixed to the bottom of the picture frame appeared to have a name and date engraved. Jake walked partway up the stairs to take a closer look. He read the inscription –Mr Angus Delaney and Master Ralph Delaney, circa 1963.
‘Ralph?’ Jake nearly lost his footing when he suddenly realised who he was looking at.
Chapter 43
Jake stood there for some minutes, staring at the painting – staring at the little boy, convinced it was Aubrey. His features resembled that of his father, and there was no denying the similarity between Aubrey, now a similar age, and the older man in the painting.
Jake turned from the painting, realising that for the first time in his life, he actually knew something real about Aubrey Jones – Aubrey, or rather Ralph, had a connection with this house. Perhaps he had grown up there. It didn’t appear that he’d inherited the house from his father, from what Lawrence had said. Angus Delaney, the last of the family to live there, had left the property in a charitable trust.
Jake had always wondered why Aubrey refused to return with them for the family get-togethers in Scotland. Perhaps it was because of this house, and his father. Jake could only surmise that they’d had a falling-out of some sort, and that was why the house hadn’t been left to him.
Perhaps Lawrence knew more about the benefactor of this hospice. He’d noticed that Lawrence had walked down a corridor. He decided to follow.
He made his way cautiously along the hallway, consciousof the fact that he should probably not be wandering around back there. There could be patients in their rooms or having treatment. Jake didn’t want the big guy to chuck him out, because he really should get his hands looked at by a professional – and besides, he had questions about the painting.
Jake could hear sounds coming from a room a little further down the hall. The door was ajar. Jake looked in. The room was immediately familiar; two filing cabinets stood against the back wall, and there was the old desk where the woman in the pencil skirt and razor-thin heels had been sitting the day before. ‘Oh, my god. This is the room, and it’s exactly the same!’ Jake blurted before he could stop himself.
Lawrence turned around with a tube of antiseptic cream. Jake expected him to say,what are you doing? You shouldn’t be here.
What he did say surprised Jake. ‘I shouldn’t be here,’ he grumbled.
‘This is the reception room,’ Jake said slowly, looking around the familiar room.
‘And don’t I know it,’ said Lawrence ruefully. ‘I’m forever forgetting myself and walking down to the old supply room only to remember when I get here that it’s now the other reception.’
‘Theotherreception?’
‘Lucky there’s a first aid kit in here.’ He walked past Jake, hovering in the doorway. ‘Have to do this at the reception desk, I’m afraid.’ He held up the antiseptic cream. ‘I can’t leave my post for too long.’
Jake hovered by the door a moment longer, staring into the room, before heading back to the front desk. All this was freaking him out. ‘What do you meanthe old supply room?’
‘Yes, like I said, that used to be the old supply room, way back when, where they kept spare sheets and blankets, and medical supplies locked in a cabinet. But then someone, don’t ask me who, had the bright idea to turn a wing of the house over to self-contained apartments, obviously for people who could afford them. I think the trust had to find ways to bring in some money to do some repairs to the building, and this is what they came up with. They’ve got their own entrance to the building, and even a receptionist who doesn’t dress like this …’
He indicated the starched white, clinical uniform he wore. ‘So their relatives, when they visit, aren’t reminded that it’s really a hospice, and their apartments are really very sheltered accommodation. That entrance just a short way down the road. It takes them around the side of the house, which, with the main entrance door, and Georgian bay windows, looks remarkably similar to the front of the house. That’s where they’ll find the receptionist in her own little office. That’s what I was going to explain to you when I realised I hadn’t got this cream.’
‘Grey pencil skirt, high heels, hair in a bun?’ Jake asked, wanting to be absolutely sure.
‘Yes, that’s her.’
‘Oh, thank god!’ Jake exhaled in relief as he followed Lawrence back down the hallway. ‘I’m not losing my mind.’
‘I should hope not, at your age. Mind you, things have been known to happen to people – it’s not uncommon to suffer stress, anxiety, depression – stuff that plays with your mind.’
Jake nodded, staring at Lawrence. He got the feeling that the man was talking from experience. ‘I walked in that entrance last time I was here.’ Jake frowned at the thought of Marcus with the envelope full of photos. If he hadn’t been constantly distracted as he drove, chances are he wouldn’t have missed the first entrance, which would have taken him around the side of the house to where the apartments were – where Martha was.
That reminded Jake of something. ‘I really haven’t got time to get my hands looked at. I’ve got to see someone here.’
Lawrence grabbed his arm. ‘They can wait. These can’t. You don’t want to get septic shock, do you?’
Jake shook his head, even though he had no idea what that was, apart from the fact that it sounded bad.
‘Take a seat.’
