Death of a Butterfly Page 9

  There was a long silence. Nirmal appeared to meditate for some time. Then he started to speak again. His tone was slightly warmer.

  “We all like to dig. We wander through life along our chosen path and when we come to a place we feel comfortable, we start digging. Sometimes we become completely absorbed with our hole – the soil, the roots, interesting stones, different creatures. We become identified by our particular hole and what is in it. We want to deepen our sense of self so we keep on digging. Digging deeper into our beliefs, assumptions, values and judgements. As we get deeper into our hole we see less of the land around us. After a while we see only the sky above. At these times we need a friend to come along and offer a hand to pull us out so we can see the beautiful expanse beyond.”

  Nirmal looked into my eyes for a long time before smiling. Sandy continued.

  “We all dig our holes. The four of us here dig holes with our discussions. We all benefit from a friend offering us a hand to climb out again. Once we are back out in the open, the temptation is to find another Eden and dig in again. So Amanda, please do not think of any of this as personal. We are here for each other as much as for you. You may want to stay in your hole for a while and that is wonderful. We will still be ready to help you out when you feel the impulse to leave, and I hope you will help me out of mine.”

  After another pause Henrique finally spoke.

  “Trusting other people to help keep me moving, exploring and discovering is an amazing gift I have given myself.”

  Then Sandy led a meditation. I tried to breathe in with the intention that I was loving myself.

  After we described how we felt. I felt strangely calm, content and peaceful. The anger had passed easily, like mud washed away by the rain. After some time Nirmal, Henrique and Sandy got up. We hugged each other before our guests dressed for the cold, wet night outside.

  When we were settled on the sofa, Dorothy put her hand on my arm and spoke softly.

  “Do you think my home could be your chrysalis for a while?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wonder whether this could be a place for you to experience some kind of transformation?”

  “I think that may be happening already.”

  Dorothy smiled.

  “Well, we will see.”

  CHAPTER 11

  I woke thinking about Veronica Blake. It was strange that I had taken her last name. Mathew became a Blake, left Veronica and met me, giving me the name Blake. I had assumed Blake was Mathew’s name. He insisted that his past was behind him. He didn’t want old relationships invading ours. I was happy with that at the time. I did not want to imagine my Mathew kissing other women. I liked his fresh clean start approach to our life together. Now his previous wife had walked into my life. Mathew was developing a past and I could not shut it out. Dorothy thought learning more about Veronica would help answer the mystery of why Mathew was shot.

  Breakfast with Dorothy was a curious affair. First we sat feeling what we wanted. She wanted me to escape habits and any idea of what I should eat. I always felt like tea, toast, butter and marmalade.

  I put on my disguise, packed my bag and went out to Oxford Street to pick up some new clothes with the money Dorothy leant me. On the way I sent Ruby an email telling her of my plans and asking if we could meet up. Whilst I was in Oxford Street, I phoned James to find out if he had heard more.

  “I spoke to someone who has been in the force for over twenty years. Look Amanda, I really think we should meet up. I can explain it all properly.”

  “No. It’s not that I don’t trust you, James, but I feel safer being anonymous for now.”

  “Well, at least tell me where you are.”

  Why was James so keen to find me?

  “That would hardly help. Tell me what you have discovered and hopefully it will bring all this to an end and I can go back to normal.”

  “Okay, he remembers Joan Pride but cannot recall her having any relationship with Mathew. He thinks during the period before you and Mathew met, she was in a relationship with Inspector Lenga. They were notorious when it finally became public. Not only was the relationship interracial, and therefore the source of jokes, but there were suspicions that Pride was made a sergeant because of Lenga’s influence.”

  “One last question: Have you remembered what your last conversation with Mathew was? It would help me to know a little more of what was happening to him in his last hours.”

  There was a slight pause.

  “Sorry, nothing coming back to me yet.”

  As I left the phone box, I saw Edward walking along Oxford Street towards me. He was wearing a long fawn coat with brown leather gloves. His movements appeared hurried. I pretended to look into a shop window. I could see him in the glass reflection. He strode quickly right up to me and then stopped. My heart missed a beat. Surely he could not recognise me in my disguise. He was looking straight at me. I looked down at a pair of expensive red sandals. I noticed Edward look at his watch out of the corner of my eye. He seemed distracted by something and then crossed the road. I turned to watch him walk, until he was lost in the crowd. I felt shaky and unsettled. Had he recognised me? Would he follow me home?

  I went home, making an effort to place myself within crowds of people. I hopped onto the tube train at the last minute. When I reached my station I waited to see if Edward left the train too. Satisfied I was alone, I made my way home.

  Dorothy was out. I removed my wig and makeup. I was getting a headache and lay down on my bed with a wet cloth over my eyes. My mind was frantically analysing, going round in circles. Speculation, assumptions and opinions ran wild. Edward, James, Pride? My headache got worse. I got up and looked through the bathroom cabinet for painkillers. Dorothy would probably make a special herbal tea. She did not have any medication.

  Finally I could not stand it any longer and went out to the chemist in Belsize Village. As I collected the painkillers, I saw myself in the mirror. I had no disguise. No jacket, hood, wig or hat. I immediately felt exposed and naked. My eye started to twitch immediately. I rushed home with my head down. I felt someone following me, but when I turned round there was just a young woman with a pushchair. I looked up and down the tree-lined road before darting up the steps to the front door. My nerves overcame me and I could not get the key to fit the lock. My hands started to tremble. I looked round. There was a young man waiting at the bus stop, two women talking in front of the church and an older man in a long fawn mackintosh walking past.

  I took several calming breaths and tried again. When I looked down I realised I had the inner flat key between my fingers. Once I swapped it for the outdoor key, I was quickly inside and safe. When I got into the flat I heard footsteps coming from the kitchen. My heart leapt.

  “Is that you dear? I just got some lovely plums for you to try.”

  I told my aunt of the headache and my trip to the pharmacy. She put one hand on my forehead and the other across the back of my neck.

  “I think I have just the thing for you.”

  Dorothy made me a strange drink of hot water, apple cider vinegar, lemon and mint leaves. She then suggested I try some pieces of a very sour, salty, Japanese pickled plum called umeboshi. I went to my room to lie down.

  When I woke my head was pain free. I suddenly felt very sad that my parents couldn’t see beyond their prejudices and realise what a wonderful person Dorothy was. They seemed trapped in a kind of tribal self-righteousness that meant they wanted to prove outsiders like Dorothy as being wrong. For a moment I felt ashamed of them. Then I thought that perhaps they had just dug themselves so deep into their holes, as Nirmal said, that they just couldn’t hear Dorothy’s different ideas.

  I got up and sat in the living room with Dorothy. She wanted to know, in as much detail as possible, what the threatening letters said. I drew out the images on plain paper and wrote out the messages for her, with all the misspellings, as best as I could remember.

  “Let me get my reading glasse
s.”

  When she returned, she sat close to me.

  “Well, this is interesting. The wording looks like it has been written by a child or someone who has very little education.”

  “Lots of people use the text style of writing. Couldn’t it be someone wanting to remain anonymous?”

  “Yes, it could but I think the person who wrote this was emotional. The words are chosen to hurt, offend and frighten.”

  Dorothy lay back against the back of the sofa and closed her eyes. Then she asked me how the photographs were attached to the paper. She was intrigued by my description.

  “Photocopying the photographs, cutting them out and sticking them onto paper suggests someone with no access to a computer. I am no expert, but I am told you can scan pictures into a computer and then easily put them on a page and write the captions so that it all prints onto one piece of paper.”

  “Yes, all my pupils would be able to do that easily.”

  “Even the idea of a cartoon style suggests someone quite young to me.”

  We sat in silence for some time.

  “Something else that is bothering me is that James had a telephone conversation shortly before Mathew was murdered and he claims he cannot remember anything about it.”

  “That does sound suspicious. The human mind works in mysterious ways, and I imagine it is very good at remembering someone’s last conversation, however mundane. The question we need to ask ourselves is how we can open James up to revealing the contents of that call?”

  “I think it would help me, even if it has nothing to do with Mathew’s killing.”

  “Sometimes I find the best thing is to meditate on something else and see if an answer pops into my head. Why don’t you help me repot these plants? They have outgrown their homes.”

  Dorothy encouraged me to get absorbed in the feeling of the soil, roots and pots. She suggested I get lost in observing the plants. Then she wanted me to feel the plants emotionally and try to connect to them.

  “You are so full of life. Are you thirsty?”

  I started to answer before realising she was talking to the plants. When we finished, Dorothy sat in her chair and shut her eyes. I cleared up the loose soil and put the new pots back by the window.

  “You know dear, I think is time you visited Mathew’s ex-wife. What is her name?”

  “Veronica.”

  Dorothy shut her eyes for a few minutes.

  “Well I think it is a splendid idea, my dear. Venice is such a beautiful city. Roger and I went there. We stayed in a lovely hotel. What was the name?” Dorothy held up her hand as though to stop me answering. “It was close to St Mark’s Square. I remember the host very well.” I let her talk on until she trailed off.

  “I can’t. My passport is in my home and even if I did have it with me I would feel nervous going through passport control. Pride could have put out an alert. I would hate to be arrested trying to leave the country.”

  My aunt must have been tired. She fell asleep on the armchair. I put a green and brown, tartan wool blanket over her and tucked her in gently. I felt blessed to be staying with Dorothy. As I got up she mumbled.

  “A solution will present itself.”

  As my aunt drifted off again I sat down. My mind was consumed with questions about Edward. Then I thought about my aunt’s comments about the notes being written by a young man. That did not fit at all. It made no sense. I could not imagine Edward would have hired some youth who could hardly speak English to send me notes.

  As thoughts of suspects, murderers, revenge, hate, span around my head I became increasingly fearful. My body contracted and tensed. My heart raced. I gripped my cold clammy hands together. I could feel myself perspire as my headache returned. I cursed my situation. I sat forward in the chair and rocked back and forth. Then I jumped right out of the chair as the door buzzer sounded in alarm. I walked cautiously to the entry phone and pressed the video button. There was a stocky, bald man standing in front of the camera. He buzzed again. I looked over at my aunt. She looked peaceful and calm. I lifted the receiver.

  “Hello.”

  “I’m looking for a Mrs Amanda Blake, is she there?”

  I dropped the receiver. It clattered against the wall before dropping to the table below knocking over a glass vase with red carnations. I felt I was having another panic attack.

  “What is it dear?”

  My aunt sat up.

  I glanced at the video screen. The man was still there. I hardly dared look at him. I could feel the nerve below my eye tighten intermittently.

  “There is someone at the front door asking for me.”

  My voice was high pitched and shaky.

  “Do you recognise him?”

  “No. He looks short, heavy, about fifty and is wearing a suit.”

  I picked up the receiver and dropped it again as the buzzer sounded close to my ear.

  “Tell him I will come down.”

  I took a moment to steady myself.

  “Hello, I will come down. Give me a few minutes.”

  My aunt got up and straightened her clothes in front of the hall mirror.

  “Well, this is all most exciting. I wonder who it could be. You stay here Amanda, and lock the door whilst I am downstairs.”

  My aunt turned and winked at me as she left, closing the door gently. Two things stood out in my mind. Firstly, that all this appeared to be a game to my aunt. She seemed to be genuinely interested to find out more.

  Secondly, that even with the drama of a potential murderer at our front door she closed the door gently. So far nothing had shaken her from the gentle calm she lived in. It must have been infectious. I was beginning to regain my self-control.

  I locked and bolted the door and tidied up the carnations. With the answer phone receiver pressed against my ear I could hear everything at the front door whilst watching through the screen.

  I could hear the man introduce himself as Mr Ron Peterson from Investigative Services Ltd. He reached into his jacket and took out a clear plastic wallet with an ID label inside. He then handed my aunt his card. He went on to explain that he had been hired by the North Herts Building Society to trace Mrs Blake so she could agree to the building societies proposal and remove her possessions.

  Dorothy went on to explain that Mathew had been murdered and that I had received several death threats and was in hiding.

  Mr Peterson laughed and said it only took him two days to track me down. My aunt asked him what made him think I was here.

  “I watched a woman of about the correct age with a wig leave this address in the morning at 9.23. She returned at 14.09. Then she left again at 15.04 without her wig and returned at 15.31. In the meantime you came home at 15.17. I took photographs from my car and they match the photographs I have on my computer. I know Mrs Blake is in your home right now.”

  I felt weak and started to shake slightly. He continued.

  “I think it is in Mrs Blake’s best interest to discuss this and reach a formal agreement regarding her home and make arrangements to remove her things to a safe place.”

  “How do we know we can trust you? For all I know you could be the man sending threats and using this as a guise for gaining entry.”

  “I have here a letter from the building society and copies of the mortgage agreements. I suggest you call Mr Davies at the credit department. You are welcome to have your solicitor present, or any other person that would reassure you of Mrs Blake’s safety. We can meet in a public place. I noticed there is a café close by.”

  My aunt said something and turned to come inside. I saw Mr Peterson walk away. I ran over to the window and watched him cross the road and get into a dark blue saloon car. I noticed he had a slight limp. I walked back to the hall and let my aunt in.

  We discussed the options. I realised I would have to confront the situation regarding my home. I phoned the building society and Mr Davies confirmed that Mr Peterson was engaged to find me. Dorothy offered to call a neighbour, Henry,
to see if he could escort us to the café. I agreed. I heard her talk. She made it sound like a very exciting proposition. Next, Dorothy phoned Mr Peterson and said we would meet at the café at 5 p.m. She turned to me and looked into my eyes.

  “Amanda, how do you feel?”

  I groaned inwardly. I did not want to discuss my feelings whilst in the middle of a crisis. I persevered to try and humour my aunt. She had been so helpful and I knew she was well meaning.

  “Frightened, scared, nervous, a little cold.”

  “Do you feel love?”

  I shook my head. Dorothy reached out and put her hand on mine.

  “Listen Amanda, you are coming to an important point in your life. Things are happening and this is not the time to get lost in illusions, this would not be the ideal time to get lost in the layers around your soul. Now is a time to be connected, centred, clear and present.”

  I went to put on my disguise.

  My aunt’s phone rang, she answered and she told me Henry was waiting downstairs. Dorothy suggested I stay in a mindful state by consciously feeling every step as we walked to the main door. We met Henry outside.

  “Hello, Henry. How kind of you to help us on our little adventure.”

  My aunt then introduced us. Henry was over six foot with long, curly, blond hair. He wore a tight grey polo top under his open jacket. Henry looked slim in an athletic way. His mouth broke into a big smile as he made a joke about bringing his penknife for the occasion.

  As we walked towards the café, Dorothy and Henry made small talk about a new delicatessen that had opened nearby. Then she turned to me.

  “Feel every step, dear. There is no rush. Just walk at your own pace. We will be beside you. Breathe, Amanda, breathe.”

  She then turned back to Henry as if nothing had happened. I saw Henry give me a quizzical look and then went back to his conversation with Dorothy. I heard their conversation move onto Henry’s practice. He was an acupuncturist working in a clinic in England’s Lane.