Edmund had told his father what had happened, of course, even though he was not sure if his father entirely understood – you could not always tell these days. Severe clinical depression, the GP had said a few months earlier, summoning Edmund from Bristol University because he had not wanted to have a patient sinking irretrievably into the twilit world of melancholia without somebody in the family being aware of it. He added that the condition had probably been present for years under the surface, although you could never be certain about these things. Oh no, it was nothing anyone could have spotted, Edmund must not blame himself for any of it. Who knew what went on in the minds of even the closest of friends or family? Well, yes, he would have to say that the psychiatric consultant he had called in did think this particular case was progressive, but nil desperandum, because there were treatments and drugs that could help. An institution? Oh dear goodness, they did not need to think about that kind of thing for a long time yet, he said.
The best thing for Edmund to do was to keep his father as much in the ordinary world as possible – there seemed to be this strong tendency to look back on the past, had Edmund noticed that? Well, anyway, cheerfulness, that was the watchword. Edmund should try to keep his father’s mind focused on pleasant things: bits of family news, his own studies, light-hearted events in the world – not that there were many of those these days, eh?
It was difficult to tell if the news of the fire and the deaths of Mariana and Bruce Trent distressed Edmund’s father or not.
‘Everything was burned?’ he kept asking Edmund. ‘In the fire?’
‘Yes. The top floors of the house were ruined.’
There was a long silence, and Edmund could almost feel his father trying to clutch at the rags of his own sanity. It was a relief when he asked a perfectly sane question about Lucy. ‘What will happen to her? Where will she live?’
‘With Bruce Trent’s family, I think.’
‘Not with Deborah?’
‘No. Deborah suggested it, but I think everyone agreed Lucy would be better off with her father’s family. I should think she’ll spend holidays with Deborah, though.’
‘Ah. Yes, of course.’ For a moment Edmund thought his father had sunk back into the dreadful darkness and he was just preparing to leave when his father suddenly said, ‘Deborah would have liked having Lucy with her. Pity about that. But bring Lucy to visit me one day, will you?’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Edmund surprised.
‘I’d like that. Will she grow up to be like her grandmother, d’you think?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Edmund.
Just before the inquest Edmund said to Lucy that it would be better not to tell anyone about the oil lamp.
Lucy had regarded him with solemn eyes, a little too large for her small face. ‘Not ever?’
‘No,’ said Edmund. ‘Not ever.’
She frowned, and Edmund realized that she was going to say something about it having been Edmund himself who had overturned the lamp – he could feel the thoughts forming in Lucy’s bewildered mind. So, not giving her time to frame the words, he said, ‘Lucy, listen. People might not understand about – about you being up there that night.’ A pause. ‘They might even decide the fire was your fault.’
It was rather dreadful to see the child’s expression change, but it could not be helped. Lucy was a truthful, intelligent child, and anything she said might be believed. No matter how badly Edmund’s plan to get revenge from that condescending bitch Mariana Trent had gone wrong – no matter how appalled he might be at what had happened – he had to cover his tracks.
‘Might I be punished?’ said Lucy after a moment.
‘No. No. I don’t really think anyone would do that,’ said Edmund, making it sound as if he was not absolutely sure. ‘But just in case, it would be better never to tell anyone about being in the attics.’
‘Yes, I see. I won’t ever say anything,’ said Lucy. ‘I promise.’
‘Good girl.’
‘But I thought,’ said Lucy, speaking very carefully as if she was determined not to cry, ‘that the rain would put the fire out. Didn’t you think that, Edmund?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘I used to like night rain,’ said Lucy wistfully. ‘Didn’t you? It makes you feel all safe and cosy. And then in the morning everything’s all clean and sparkly and fresh. But I don’t like it now.’
‘I don’t like night rain at all,’ said Edmund.
CHAPTER TWENTY